tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26274123835716578702024-02-20T00:53:56.182-08:00Over the MoonYemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.comBlogger190125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-19956246222979139962018-06-11T10:00:00.000-07:002018-06-12T11:19:03.485-07:00Cherry Pie & Whipped CreamOn Sunday I had cherry pie and whipped cream for breakfast!<br />
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Why is this important enough to write a blog post about?<br />
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Oh, my dear, wonderful friends and followers, what follows is a tale of woe! A tale of gastronomic deficiency. Of a shortfall of flavor. A gluten-free, sugar-free spiral into a reactive hypoglycemic's worst nightmare!<br />
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Well, it's not really all as bad as that. I am being somewhat dramatic about it. It is, in fact, more a love story than anything, albeit the love story is not my own.<br />
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It all started two years ago... Well, that's not, strictly speaking, true. It really started about eight years ago when it was determined that my grandson has turret syndrome. In an effort not to succumb to any pressure to medicate him, my daughter explored dietary options as a way to help him. She, in turn, determined that a gluten-free/sugar-free diet was the way to go and, in all fairness, there was a sharp and positive change evident in his behavior after she implemented the change.<br />
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Fast forward to May 29, 2016 when she and I blended our lives and moved in together.<br />
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Even before I arrived, we both knew that food was going to be an issue. My philosophy when it comes to eating is simple: <b><i>Eat what you enjoy and enjoy what you eat! </i></b>I pay no attention whatsoever to all the freaky-deaky trends and unending debate about what is good for you and what is not and how anything affects anything. I'm a consummate pasta-phile. I love pasta. I love chocolate. I love potato chips. I love bread and cheese and pizza and ice cream and pretty much everything that my beloved grandson isn't supposed to eat.<br />
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It's not that I'm not supportive. I see and acknowledge the benefit the gluten and sugar-free diet has provided for the lad. When he does eat gluten and sugar in any appreciable quantity he turns into what we have affectionately come to call a gluten asshole. (We don't say that to his face!) He becomes a surly, argumentative, uncooperative and crazy-making beast child. It's rather unpleasant. So I have a vested interest in ensuring that his intake of the Mr. Hyde food is as close to nil as possible. Thus, I hide my food as best I can.<br />
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I know, I know... You're probably thinking: Why don't you just change your diet? And my simple answer is: Because that crap tastes awful! And I don't enjoy the attacks of low blood sugar when they happen.<br />
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I did try going gluten-free some years ago. It was so... tasteless! Not to mention expensive! You need to take out a loan just to buy a loaf of decent-tasting gluten-free bread. You can, of course, settle for the normal gluten-free bread that tastes like granulated paste and is still ridiculously over-priced.<br />
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But let's not get caught up in that aspect of things. Judge me if you want. I'm a wheat junkie and we have managed - for the most part - to keep things relatively gluten and sugar-free for the kids. They still get lots of that kind of thing when they are at friends' houses and at school.<br />
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My daughter does 99% of the grocery shopping. We both know full well what I will come home with if that particular task is left up to me. Besides, she is the one with the vehicle and, while I have done it a time or two, schlepping home a week's worth of groceries on the bus is neither easy, nor particularly pleasant. Now that I have Luther Pen-draggin', my new trusty shopping cart on wheels, however, I may just take it on more often.<br />
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Again, I digress...<br />
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It's time to introduce the love story portion of this post.<br />
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Recently, my daughter has taken up with a delightful young man from Grand Prairie. This long-distance relationship, though new and fresh, appears to be unfolding in a positive direction. For purposes of privacy, I shall henceforth refer to my daughter's beau as Darth Vader.<br />
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If you are thinking this is a sobriquet of disapproval based on a negative interpretation of his personality, I assure you it is nothing of the sort. For Darth Vader is friendly, kind and possessive of great good humor. He is a self-proclaimed sci-fi/fantasy geek and the real reason I have chosen to refer to him as I have is that he is a member of the 501st Legion - Badlands Garrison and appears in the guise of the great Sith Lord himself.<br />
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This past weekend, Darth Vader graced our home with his esteemed presence. While visiting, he participated in the annual Pride Parade along with his fellow Legion members, sporting a rainbow breastplate that stood out in "proud" contrast to the basic black he normally wears.<br />
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He also went grocery shopping with my daughter!<br />
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My role in the grocery shopping duty is to unpack and put away the food when it has been brought home. It's kind of like Yule for me. Or an Ostara egg hunt. I get to rummage through the bags and discover the goodies that are hidden among the gluten and sugar-free stuff. It's usually just potato chips and normal pasta, but sometimes it's Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and soda crackers. Or a ring of garlic sausage. Or a tempting wedge of Gouda!<br />
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So you can imagine the joy I felt when I reached into a bag and pulled out a cherry pie and a can of whipped cream! The heavens opened up and the angels trumpeted the advent of this rare and much coveted treat and I knew, with absolute certainty, that this was love. Not love for pie and whipped cream; love between my daughter and a Sith Lord.<br />
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Yes, I took advantage of the opportunity to tease my daughter a little by declaring my approval of this relationship based on my getting cherry pie and whipped cream! But the true source of my happiness is seeing the happiness that my daughter and Darth Vader are bringing into each other's life.<br />
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The cherry pie and whipped cream are just a delicious bonus for me. Best breakfast I've had in a while!<br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-4248793931377022272018-06-10T09:52:00.003-07:002018-06-10T09:52:52.001-07:00Four Times a Chime at 4:44: Twice<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So... I'm taking a course on blogging for profit and the first thing the instructor instructed was to turn off all notifications on all devices and unfollow (not unfriend) everyone and everything on every social media platform. I was dubious, but she's the expert, right!? It took a good deal of time. She assured me that the the lack of distractions would help me be more productive. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday, I was so distracted by the lack of distractions I was unable to focus on the next instruction and have no idea what that is even though I watched the video twice. And then I was just annoyed at how aware I was of the lack of pings and dings and vibrations that indicate someone has shared something that they think might be of interest to the world. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Determined to get through this disconnection phase and become super productive, I steadfastly returned my focus - over and over - to being productive. I did a little writing. I did a little painting. I did the dishes. I went for a walk. I listened to music. I read a couple of chapters in my book. I puttered. I watched the second lesson video for my course. Then I watched it again. I watched The Staircase. I watched an episode of Midsomer Murders. I watched a movie and ate cherry pie with whip cream! (which will be the topic of my next blog post!) And then I went to bed.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My normal routine when I retire for the night is to read for a while and then meditate. My intention is to end my day focusing on good things, fun things, happy things, anything that isn't/wasn't a "problem" during the day. Since I don't have a partner not to go to bed mad at, I try to go to bed not mad at the rest of the world. (Ha-ha.) Last night my normal routine unfolded quite normally and I drifted off to sleep around midnight. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">All was going well. I was sleeping, which was the goal at the time, so I think that is a reasonable assumption to make. I recall dreaming, but not the dream itself. As far as I know, the night was progressing perfectly and I was contentedly resting up, getting ready for my first truly full day of being super productive. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">At 4:44 a.m. a faint, yet pleasant chime split the cone of silent sleep I was ensconced within with the force of a bomb and I was launched from my peaceful slumber like I was being shot from a canon. The sensation was visceral (god, I love that word!). I felt like I was being hurled through space and time from the edge of an event horizon back to this space and this time. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Heart racing, sweat beading and with a white-knuckle grip on the sheets, I met consciousness in a similar fashion to the way a car moving at full speed meets a brick wall. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">My first thought was that I had been dreaming. I released the sheets and reached for my phone, noting the time and collapsing back onto my pillow. "Okay, that was weird," I thought and may even have said out loud. And then I heard the faint, yet pleasant chime again.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was not coming from my phone. How could it? I had turned off all auditory notifications as per my instructors instructions. It was coming from... Everywhere!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Straining to hear it again and to identify a more precise point of origin, I laid still, barely breathing, tense and focused. The hum of the fan gently rumbling in the corner filled the entire airspace. Beyond that, there was no noise whatsoever. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">As time is wont to do, it passed. My muscles relaxed and my vigilance waned as the blissful oblivion of sleep reclaimed me. I remember rolling over to adopt my go-to sleep position, a semi-fetal, right-knee-bent-left-leg-straight-hands-tucked-under-my-cheek left-side repose. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I'm not sure how one knows how long one has slept other than to note the time difference between falling asleep and waking up again, but, if </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I were to estimate, I would say that I slept for about an hour before... you guessed it!... that faint, yet pleasant chime woke me up again.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This time was not such a shocking and violent return to consciousness. My eyes popped open and I tuned my awareness to my surroundings. The sound of rain falling blended with the hum of the fan, but otherwise there was only the quite of the night. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">(Cue the theme from The Twilight Zone, for this is where my tale turns truly strange....)</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I reached for my phone to check the time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i>It was 4:44 a.m.</i></b></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Was this just a dream? Did I even actually wake up the first time? My left brain wants to declare it a strange and slightly disturbing dream and put paid to the whole incident. If not for the intriguing, and as of yet unexplained, repetition of the faint, yet pleasant chime sounding for a fourth and final time <b><i>after </i></b>I abandoned any notion of going back to sleep and was in kitchen pouring my first coffee of the day, I might accept that. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Was it a notification on someone else's device? There are four other people in the house and they all have phones. Again, in lieu of the dream theory, my left brain likes this explanation. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our ears are designed to not only hear sounds, but to determine from which direction they are coming, though. The faint, yet pleasant chime I heard in the wee hours came from no discernible direction. Like some cosmic surround-sound system the chime came from everywhere all at once. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have purposely described it as faint because it was not loud. But it was clear and it was, as I have also described it, really pleasant. Comforting. It was neither a bell nor a gong. Chime is the closest word I can find to recount what I heard, but I cannot recall hearing a sound exactly like it ever before.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have been, however, compelled to re-follow everyone on every social media platform and to re-instate some of the audible notifications (though not all) on my devices and am in the productive (?) process of getting that crossed off its priority position on my to-do list. (Hmmmm... Prioritizing tasks might be the subject of the second lesson...) I shall return to that after I complete this missive. My productivity will just have to be fit in around the potential distractions they may present. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have been internally debating whether or not to explore the metaphysical/esoteric connotations that could be subscribed to in relation to this (sorry, I can't resist) case. Particularly those surrounding the meaning of 444 as a sign from the Universe. But I think I will leave all that to your own imaginations as I allow this to filter and become fully processed in my own mind. I think I prefer to wallow in the mystery of it. It was oddly uplifting (except for the hurtling through space and time and meeting consciousness so abruptly part) and has left me feeling somewhat contented and feeling inwardly peaceful. It seems prudent to just go with that for now. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Besides, there is cherry pie and whip cream for breakfast! </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Blessings, Everyone. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-65964655380147992072018-06-06T17:12:00.000-07:002018-06-06T17:12:59.321-07:00Pissed off and happy to be soWARNING: strong language. (In other words there is a lot of swearing in this post and if you read on and still choose to be offended... Well, damn. Sucks to be you.)<br />
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It's been over a year since I've posted anything here. Sheesh! Where does the time go? Where does the motivation, the inspiration and the desire go?<br />
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Well, it seems that it gets bottled up until it explodes in a fit of pique!<br />
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Today I exploded in frustration and anger and resentment and all sorts of other horrid things. In short, I lost my shit!<br />
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While I tend to lose that on a regular basis, it's most often a case of quickly passing irritation at something and blows over in a relatively short amount of time. I swear and stomp about a bit. Then I move on.<br />
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Today was different, though. Today I thoroughly and completely lost my shit. Told the Universe to fuck right off, I did! There really isn't any finer point to put on that.<br />
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Two hours of shit-losing, Universe fuck-off-telling, exploding.<br />
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Through the tears and the fears, and a good deal of spittle spraying, I raged on, hurtling every perceived injustice I could think of having befallen me back at the world. Scared the bejesus out of the dogs, each of which sat wide-eyed and shivering in their kennels or cowering under the bed as the verbal storm I let loose pelleted the house with expletives that would make a sailor blush. It wasn't pretty by any means. But it was kind of cathartic.<br />
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The reason for the shit storm was simple. I felt myself capitulating to the wishes of others once again. And it pissed me off.<br />
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Oh, it's pissed me off before. And there have been other equally loud and dog-scaring shit storms as a result. They have all passed as did this one.<br />
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But how many times do I have to beat myself up about my propensity to give in and give up before I decide, with finality, to stop doing this to myself? How many?<br />
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I could hear Dr. Phil asking, "How's that working for ya?" (Meaning the giving in and giving up? Not the fits of pique.)<br />
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Well, it hasn't. I have given up every single dream I have ever dreamed because 1) someone else didn't think it would work; or 2) someone else said it was too risky and they didn't want to have to bale me out when it failed; or 3) someone else thought that everyone else would think I'm weird or think that they were weird for supporting me; or 4) someone else was afraid they wouldn't get what they wanted; or 5) someone else had a plan for themselves and figured that I should be more supportive...<br />
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Wait! What!?<br />
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I moved to Edmonton with the thrilling and (I thought) focused intention, after all the years - nay, decades! - of trying and failing to make my dreams come true due to some misplaced ideology that dictated keeping the peace in order to belong and be accepted as a pathway to happiness, of finally carving out the life that I have longed for for as long as I can remember. I was going to write and paint and do Tarot readings. I was going to have a garden and go to events and meet amazing people and do amazing things. While some of that has indeed unfolded, I still keep allowing myself to be dragged back into that fearful place of doing what I don't want to do so that I don't let anyone else down while I watch my dreams crumble like stale crackers and get crushed into the carpet of forgotten bliss under the heavy boots of my own stupid weakness.<br />
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It's odd. I have often been told by others that they think I am strong. Well, if strong means that I keep letting myself down, I don't want to be strong. Strong completely and totally sucks. Fuck strong. Fuck nice. Fuck polite. Fuck all that mamby-pamby boulder snot! I'm not strong! I'm wrong!<br />
<br />
I'm wrong for giving in and giving up. I'm wrong for taking the easy path. I'm wrong for settling for crappy jobs with crappy wages and crappy rules. I'm wrong for settling for less than I deserve, which is to do and be and have everything I want. And I want to be a Tarot Reader, an artist and a writer. I want an amazing house filled with cool and amazing things. I want a relationship with a fantastic guy who loves me for who I am and not for who he thinks I should be. I don't give a damn about fame or even about (vast) fortune (well, maybe a little vast...). I just want to be ME! I just want to be the creative being that I know I AM.<br />
<br />
I want to listen to old time rock 'n' roll. I want to dance. I want to wear tie-dye skirts and put flowers in my hair. I want to revel in the gloriousness of ME! Because I am glorious. I am bloody, freakin' spectacular! And I'm not going to dim my light or tow the line or bow down to the status quo. Why the hell should I?<br />
<br />
It's the 21st century, for crying out loud. And still people are writing resumes and clocking in and selling out to the corporate gods. Be professional. Don't rock the boat...<br />
<br />
Guess what!? The damn boat needs to be rocked! Hell, it needs to be flipped over and sunk to the bottom of this bloody ocean of insanity. You know what professional means? It means being controlled by a freaking paycheck and the corporate freaking asshole that signs it.<br />
<br />
You should read my journal entry for today. It starts out: I give up! (That's how defeated I felt this morning.)<br />
<br />
Ha! I don't give up. I won't give up. I deserve the best of everything. As does everyone. And that doesn't mean doing shit that makes me anything less than outrageously happy.<br />
<br />
Joseph Campbell advised us to: Follow your bliss.<br />
<br />
Follow it!? No! I'm going to envelope myself in it until it consumes me!<br />
<br />
Does this mean I won't do the dishes or sweep the floor or pay my bills? Not at all. While these things can be tiresome, they are also wonderful blessings. Dishes mean I have good food to eat. Sweeping the floor means I have a damn floor to dance on! Bills mean that I have electricity and heat and a roof over my head. I am grateful for all these things and I am happy to show my appreciation for them through the exchange of digits. Yes, I want more digits than the bills ask for in appreciation and I deserve more digits than I'm currently accumulating. There is more than enough for everyone and I intend to get my share.<br />
<br />
And when it makes me happy to do so, I will share my share, because I know that I can always get more.<br />
<br />
But I won't give up my dreams. EVER AGAIN! I won't trade my bliss for anything. I won't settle. I won't be a drone in this world. 'Cause that just sounds boring. And I'm not boring.<br />
<br />
I won't sell my "skills" to make someone else rich. I won't punch a time clock or check my schedule or wear a uniform. I won't drink from the soul-sucking fountain of indifference just to make ends meet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjoaCPwhMBmX66omqf0N1ohtm8ObMV-Tf5b3f6Q6wEdZfzo5uCImDjGf38jEb-Ed8_O6vvW66r-DCroCPliQvDfCo7exnumw7-oVAWVzeMvcmx8iwFqicDyeYO-X04q_koz8tjAzAV6m7/s1600/Tambourines_and_Elephants_Website_Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="676" data-original-width="900" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjoaCPwhMBmX66omqf0N1ohtm8ObMV-Tf5b3f6Q6wEdZfzo5uCImDjGf38jEb-Ed8_O6vvW66r-DCroCPliQvDfCo7exnumw7-oVAWVzeMvcmx8iwFqicDyeYO-X04q_koz8tjAzAV6m7/s320/Tambourines_and_Elephants_Website_Image.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image borrowed from : <br />https://www.ericsturtevant.com/products/tambourines-and-elephants</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Come with me and look out my back door where tambourines and elephants are playin' in the band! And let magic (and maybe a little mayhem) bring nothing but bliss our way.<br />
<br />
Blessings, Everyone!<br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-60443704900126798562017-03-12T11:32:00.000-07:002017-03-12T11:33:17.097-07:00Only Time Will TellIn the wee hours of the night, a strange thing happened. An hour disappeared.<br />
<br />
It just vanished as time shifted from two to three a.m. with abrupt finality. Most of us were sleeping when it happened. We didn't even notice that an hour of our precious rest was stolen from us.<br />
<br />
Some of us, fully aware and duly warned, adjusted our clocks before we went to bed. Others figured it out after waking up and realizing that something was wrong. While our electronic devices adjusted automatically, our clocks did not. The incongruity confused some people. Others reprogrammed digital time pieces and manually turned analogue clocks ahead to match the rest of the world. Some grumbled and complained. Others took it in stride. Regardless of any confusion or disapproval, life went on and the missing hour remained missing.<br />
<br />
Daylight Saving Time (Yes, it is singular! We are not banking any daylight through this process.) has been in practice for 109 years in Canada. First implemented in July, 1908 in Port Arthur (now Thunder Bay), Ontario, the trend across the country took some time to develop. In April, 1914, Saskatchewan adopted DST and Manitoba followed suit in April, 1916. Eventually, all of the provinces and territories got on board and DST became a thing.<br />
<br />
Daylight Saving Time was designed to make better use of daylight. Farmers, for example, had more daylight later in the day for harvesting crops. It kind of made sense and DST was enacted primarily during the harvest season.<br />
<br />
Strangely, DST created the illusion of longer days, a misconception that lingers even today. The stolen hour does not (however paradoxically), in and of itself, lengthen the daylight hours; it merely shifts them forward. So if the sun rose at 7 a.m. and set at 6 p.m. the day before DST commenced, it will rise at 8 a.m. and set at 7 p.m. the day DST begins (plus a couple of minutes on either end). The time shift has nothing whatsoever to do with the lengthening of the daylight hours. That is a result of the tilt of the Earth's axis in conjunction with its rotation and position in orbit around the sun. DST does NOT add any extra hours of daylight to the day. The days do lengthen here in the Northern hemisphere as the year progresses because the North Pole is tilted toward the sun. Daylight Saving Time allows the sun to set an hour later than it would if DST were not in effect. That's all.<br />
<br />
The other misconception that pervades is that the hour that goes missing in the middle of the night is stolen. It's not! It's only borrowed. It will be returned to us in the fall when we revert to Standard Time. In the wee hours of the first Sunday in November an hour will repeat itself, sunrise and sunset will seem to occur an hour earlier. Time, as it is depicted by the numbers on our clocks, will shift. (The space/time continuum will remain unaffected.)<br />
<br />
Daylight Saving Time has, however, been lengthened over the years. While it used to start at the end of April and end at the beginning of October, it now starts closer to the beginning of March and ends at the beginning of November. The reason for this is that it is believed that it helps conserve energy. Less electricity , it is theorized, is required for lighting purposes because of DST over the duration of its implementation. Farmers continue to benefit as well, I would imagine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1d8TEP_YBVXQ4sEf6mPWXBIXcByvfDvYGHq-6WhyEK8D6E5M-vqEK4TSbtx_IWnZy2ek8dgnfYgS96DkOiAWij6z9FtVm-Z_6ZURITvGYrIj59MHAOOzgZJf6h5MDb-H28XSAgfy0hkg/s1600/daylight-saving-time-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ1d8TEP_YBVXQ4sEf6mPWXBIXcByvfDvYGHq-6WhyEK8D6E5M-vqEK4TSbtx_IWnZy2ek8dgnfYgS96DkOiAWij6z9FtVm-Z_6ZURITvGYrIj59MHAOOzgZJf6h5MDb-H28XSAgfy0hkg/s320/daylight-saving-time-22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The popularity of DST is waning. Every year there is more and more kerfuffle over whether or not it is necessary. Indeed, this relatively minor shift of the numbers on clock faces does have an impact. When we spring ahead in March, people are late for work for a day or two until the adjustment is made. On the other hand, people working the night shift get paid for an hour of work that does not exist. In the fall, the opposite happens: people show up early and those working nights work (and get paid for) an extra hour to compensate. And the debate as to whether or not DST needs to be abolished continues to rage - at least for a few weeks prior to the twice yearly changes.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure what the fuss is all about. I know that in a day or two I will adjust to it. There are, it seems to me, bigger and more important things to be making a fuss over in this world. At the same time, if DST were to go the way of the dinosaur, I don't think I would be overly upset about it. No more, at any rate, than I am by the fact that I crawled out of bed an "hour later" than I normally do and, therefore, was not ready on time to catch the bus this morning. It's not the end of the world!<br />
<br />
What baffles me is that some people don't seem to connect the start of DST to the end of DST. It's like the time changes are two separate and unrelated events that happen with no apparent correlation to one another. A post that showed up on my Facebook news feed today stated that "The government takes away an hour in the middle of the night." I was somewhat stunned when I read that. Granted, DST is legislated in the areas in which it is practiced. But to say the government takes an hour away from us in the middle of the night just sounds like a deep, dark conspiracy theory. <i>OMG! The government is stealing time from us! Whatever will we do!?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
To be fair, the person who posted that statement did so in jest and was taking a humorous poke at the mindset of people who are truly incensed by the apparent loss of time that occurs (for convenience!) in the wee hours. The fact that the weather in the area where he lives was inclement this morning was the real culprit in inciting his displeasure, but there are people who will latch onto this notion of the government stealing time from us and run with it like a sharp pair of scissors through the halls of conspiratorially twisted imagination. <br />
<br />
As for me, I am going to let the adjustment happen while I look forward to the bright evenings of spring and summer. If DST is discontinued where I live, I will adjust to that too. Change is a good thing, but I wonder what impact changing to <i><b>not </b></i>changing might bring about...<br />
<br />
Only time will tell!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-29271745717929381582017-02-22T10:35:00.002-08:002017-02-22T10:43:26.813-08:00A Lesson in ManifestingThis manifesting business is... Well, it's big business. I am almost convinced that the best way to manifest is to write a book or create a video on manifesting and sell it. There are a seemingly endless number of books, websites, blogs, podcasts, video blogs and DVDs dedicated to the fine art of manifesting. Everywhere you look, someone is peddling advice on how to make your dreams come true.<br />
<br />
Hmmm...<br />
<br />
I see this as a good sign. Though not long ago I was incensed by the idea of all these people selling their own "method" for manifesting. My inner capitalist, so very nearly starved to death by my ironically greedy inner socialist, finally gathered enough oomph to smack me upside the head hard enough to make me see a different perspective. Making money is good! Making money is even okay.<br />
<br />
But this is not what I want to share today. My ideas and beliefs about money aside, manifesting is taking the world by storm and demanding that people wake up and know that they are, indeed, allowed to prosper.<br />
<br />
So, armed with a variety of systems, I recently decided to put one of them to the test. In her book, Your Invisible Power, Genevieve Behrend advocates for visualizing. Her method is quite simple and follows the basic tenets of other manifesting manifestos: think it, see it, feel it, be grateful for it (even before it takes form) and watch it happen. She cites an example of having manifested $20,000.00 simply by visualizing herself counting 20 one thousand dollar bills every morning for several minutes. While she does not give the details of how this money actually made it into her coffers, she insists that it happened and so, suspending disbelief, I decided to visualize something similar for myself.<br />
<br />
I set an amount that I wanted to manifest - $5000.00. I closed my eyes and imagined counting the money using one hundred dollar bills (I don't think that Canada has a $1000.00 note, but I intend to confirm that). All was going well. For a while.<br />
<br />
I kinda got bored with counting the 50 bills over and over and decided to divide the stack and shuffle them like a deck of cards instead. It seemed to me that I already knew that there was $5000.00 in my hands; playing with them sounded way more fun. In my imagination, shuffling 50 one hundred dollar bills was quite easy. I had equated it to shuffling cards, thus eliminating the floppiness of real notes. My visualization continued satisfactorily. I kept it up for about ten minutes and repeated the exercise twice daily for several days.<br />
<br />
Now the thing that all manifesting gurus make sure to state is that there is an undetermined time delay. Some say it will take a few days for things to start happening. You have to give the Universe time to get things rolling. And then you have to watch for the signs that guide you to the right actions that you must take in order to get what you want. Fair enough. I mean not even I expected $5000.00 to drop out of the sky into my lap. (Though it sure would be nice!)<br />
<br />
The days passed and turned into weeks. I didn't seem to be getting any signs from the Universe, but I chose to give it the benefit of any doubt, realizing that the Universe was probably just waiting for me to notice the next "shiny object" of my desires and forget about the five grand. I determined to stay the course, though, and I stuck to visualizing myself shuffling 50 one hundred dollar bills like a deck of cards.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, back in real life, arrangements were made to have my daughter and her boyfriend over for a visit. We decided to play crib. In preparation for their arrival I retrieved the crib board and cards from the closet and set them out. When my guests arrived and we had settled around the table to begin the game, my daughter took the cards out of their case and laid them on the table to be cut for first crib. My daughter won the cut and so the game began.<br />
<br />
It wasn't until it was my turn to deal that I noticed that the card backs were printed with the image of one hundred dollar bills!<br />
<br />
Pretty much exactly like I had been visualizing for days, I was shuffling one hundred dollar bills. Just like a deck of cards!<br />
<br />
I had to laugh. It seemed that the Universe either has a grand sense of humour, or it is extremely literal. Either way, the notion of clarity that is also carefully included in manifesting instructions is now being given its due attention.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
* * * * *</div>
<br />
<i>In the process of writing this blog post, I decided to research the Canadian one thousand dollar bill. It seems that "Pinkies," as they are called due to the pinkish-purply colour they are printed in, were withdrawn from circulation in 2000. The reason they were discontinued is because they were primarily used in criminal activity. Criminals preferred the higher denominations because they made moving money around easier. A million dollars in $1000.00 notes weighs only one kilogram as opposed to a million dollars in $100.00 notes, which weighs ten kilograms. There are, however, nearly one million (<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 16px;">946,043 to be precise) </span>$1000.00 bills still out there somewhere. It is believed that these notes continue to circulate primarily among the criminal element, being used to pay off debts between those of that ilk with very few ever bleeding out into general circulation. I would suppose, as well, that wear and tear will further deplete the numbers as they are not meant to last forever anyway. <a href="http://news.nationalpost.com/news/canada/the-hunt-for-canadas-1000-bills-there-are-nearly-a-million-left-most-in-the-hands-of-criminal-elites" target="_blank">You can read more about the Canadian $1000.00 bill here. </a> </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VblmWnAIXjB8Rr92WWlorQ1IHLteUCTAAJFOvO6yCEDlYPlXgFVb7HieZZpj1akt39qQfCVtRpCYMnoKWyrHx5Lbr_-uUsxekiwa8g7qPJOdox61MH6o7WNYp9KVln2lzovtkCTIKaFX/s1600/1000+bill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8VblmWnAIXjB8Rr92WWlorQ1IHLteUCTAAJFOvO6yCEDlYPlXgFVb7HieZZpj1akt39qQfCVtRpCYMnoKWyrHx5Lbr_-uUsxekiwa8g7qPJOdox61MH6o7WNYp9KVln2lzovtkCTIKaFX/s320/1000+bill.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are still a few of these babies left! The Canadian $1000.00<br />
bill remains the highest denomination of legal tender in the<br />
Western world. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><br /></i>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-4404712846312097552016-08-05T11:35:00.001-07:002016-08-05T11:37:09.578-07:00Buy & Sell on Facebook<div class="MsoNormal">
Buy and Sell pages on Facebook<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is how it works:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You post an item for sale.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
17 people respond, three of whom
ask if the item that you just posted is still available and one person says
they will take it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
(Meanwhile two other people have
PM’d you at the exact same time – one has questions like: What colour is it?,
which is clear in the accompanying photo on the post; and the other one wants
your address for pick up.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You reply to the two people saying
that someone is ahead of them.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You reply to the person who said they would take
it on the post.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You go do something else for a
while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
The person who said they would
take it does not respond, so you PM them to see if they are still interested.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You go do something else for a
while.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
The person who said they would
take it does not respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You reply to the first person
that PM’d you and ask if they are still interested and two days later they say
they are going to pass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You move on to the next person
that PM’d you and they don’t respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
A week has passed so you respond
to the next person on the list in the posting and they don’t respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You repeat steps the previous two steps with
the same result a few more times.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
Insanity begins to set in.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You consider throwing the item in
the garbage just to get rid of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You let a few days pass and then
bump the post.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
17 people respond, three of whom
ask if the item that you just posted is still available and one person who says
they will take it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You pour yourself a drink and
repeat the 4th through 11th steps<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You get a text from your daughter
saying that someone is going to come and pick up the item.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You pour yourself another drink
and run around like a mad person tidying up before they arrive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
They do not arrive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
But your house is tidy and you’re
a little tipsy, so you go play Candy Crush.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You notice a PM from someone
inquiring about the item and you reply, but you’re still tipsy and you don’t
notice that auto-correct has inserted a somewhat suggestive word and hit send
anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
The person does not respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
Another week goes by and you
consider bumping the post again, but fear holds you back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You get a PM from someone
wondering why you didn’t respond and you go back through all the threads
looking for the missed message.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You don’t find it, but you’re
ready for another drink.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You respond with apologies and
assure them that the item is still available and ask if they want to come look
at it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
They do not respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
The item mocks you from where it
is sitting. By the door. In the way. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
A drink is now definitely in order and you pour
yourself a stiff one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You put the item away somewhere
where it is not in the way, but is also not easily accessible and resolve to
accept that it is just not going to sell. (You can’t bring yourself to throw it
away.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
The doorbell rings.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You sigh because you don’t know
who it is and the house is not tidy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You answer the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
A smiling, happy person with a
tidy house announces that they are there to pick up the item.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
Your eye starts to twitch.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You dig the item out, apologize for your messy house, take the
money, realizing that you made about $1/hour after all the time you spent
trying to sell it, and thank the
smiling, happy person with the tidy house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You delete the post on the Buy
and Sell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 18.0pt;">
You join alcoholics
anonymous. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-9401358795133257872016-07-28T11:45:00.000-07:002016-07-28T11:45:32.333-07:00A Bad Experience Chapter Two Last week I wrote about a bad experience I had with a corporation. The experience was frustrating, to say the least. <br />
<br />
The essence of the experience is that said corporation was supposed to complete a task on my behalf, but did not. In the process of trying to sort it out and get the task completed, things got heated - primarily due to a specific representative of the corporation denying that he (or the corporation) was in any way accountable. <br />
<br />
Eventually, the task did get completed. Well, almost. I now have to deal with extra charges because the task was not done on time and I don't know how much those charges will be, because another corporation is involved and they don't seem to be able to tell me anything. <br />
<br />
Sigh...<br />
<br />
The task was performed in a less direct way than originally anticipated. Let's just say we took the scenic route and dealt with the basic part of the task by manipulating the data a bit and arranging its disbursement in a manner that was more involved on my part than it needed to have been.<br />
<br />
And while that was happening, somewhere in the deep mechanisms of the corporate structure, someone got the original memo and completed the task as well. <br />
<br />
Now had the specific representative bothered to call the deep mechanisms to see what happened to the original memo, he might have been told - and thus been able to reassure me! - that the memo was circulating through the system and was, indeed, heading in the general direction of its intended and desired destination, which was to complete the task on my behalf. But he didn't. He chose to finagle a different solution in the pursuit of pleasing me, a disgruntled and dissatisfied customer. <br />
<br />
Wow!<br />
<br />
When I discovered that the task had been completed twice, I felt something in my brain snap! I actually felt it. Snap! This was un-bloody-believable.<br />
<br />
So I called the call centre... Mostly because I am still quite unable to talk to the specific representative who screwed everything up in the first place... and suffered through the painful process of getting connected to a real person. (I won't elaborate on that any further. See <i><a href="http://moonoverhouston.blogspot.ca/2016/07/a-rant-about-bad-experience-with-big.html" target="_blank">A Rant About a Bad Experience</a></i> for more details... If you dare.) Once connected, I tried to explain what happened AND remain calm about it while I did.<br />
<br />
The man that answered the call was very helpful, very patient and a bit thick. It took several attempts to map out the events leading up to the duplication of the task. But he eventually understood what happened and told me that he would have it rectified as soon as possible. This time I was not given a specific timeline for the pending taskectomy. And I didn't ask. I couldn't. <br />
<br />
Remember that little snap I mentioned earlier?<br />
<br />
Well, right about the moment that he told me that he would rectify the situation, a second, bigger snap... more like a <b><i>BOOM</i></b>... occurred. It was like a small bomb went off in my head and I burst into maniacal laughter. <br />
<br />
I couldn't control myself. I tried! Believe me, I tried. But, after weeks of getting the run around and having heard that before, nothing could stop the waves of hysterical laughter and while I gasped my thanks between guffaws and tears poured down my cheeks and I rolled around on my bed, this poor guy, I'm sure, was contemplating a new career! Perhaps something that did not involve answering telephones. Training dolphins, maybe. Just anything that doesn't require having to deal with wackadoos like me.<br />
<br />
When they play the recording of this call for training purposes, I envision a mass submission of resignations and an influx of frightened souls at the unemployment line. Call centre Customer Service Rep is not a position for the feint of heart!<br />
<br />
I have since decided to leave this whole mess with the Universe to sort out. The bizarre things that have developed and unfolded since my arrival here have left me thoroughly vexed. <br />
<br />
My mind is slowly pulling itself back together. The hysteria is subsiding and as long as I don't think about it, I am not experiencing any relapses. A full recovery is likely. <br />
<br />
Life can be so strange! Little problems and difficulties pop up out of nowhere and knock you down or pull you off course. And then something wonderful happens. In time both the good and the bad fade away and get forgotten, making space for new challenges and new wonders to come to roost. I dare say that the craziness of the past few weeks has certainly taken a toll. Yet I feel hopeful and curious about what the future holds for me here. <br />
<br />
A bad experience is just that. A bad experience. But all experiences have value. In time I hope to discover the value in this one! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-90367522007381917012016-07-22T14:46:00.001-07:002016-07-22T14:46:33.596-07:00A Rant About a Bad Experience With a Big BusinessCAUTION: contains strong language. (But only a little bit)<br />
<br />
Prepare yourself for a bit of a rant. I will do my best to be concise and objective and I apologize in advance if I happen to lose my shit in the course of this missive.<br />
<br />
Now, I do try - very hard! - not to be a whiner and a complainer. I work at being understanding and giving the benefit of the doubt where and when I am at a disadvantage as to the mechanisms that go awry and cause me inconvenience. I admit quite freely that I am wont to freak out first and ask questions later. It's a terrible habit, I know... which is why I am working on it. I have a quick temper. But after a good rant and a reasonable cooling off period, I can deal with things reasonably. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, though, this approach is not conducive to a speedy resolution and I fall back on freaking out. If nothing else, it does get peoples' attention. (Give the crazy lady what she wants. Quickly!) And I do get some measure of satisfaction when a particularly unhelpful person is forced to backpedal! <br />
<br />
I get it that people make mistakes. I make mistakes. It happens. I don't have problems with people making mistakes. What I do have a problem with is people who make mistakes and then try to deny their culpability or pass the buck onto someone else. That, makes me mad. <br />
<br />
So! A mistake got made a while back. When I discovered the mistake, I steeled my courage and picked up the phone to call the company that made the mistake to report it. A very personable young man - eventually! (and I will get to that bit shortly) - won me in the customer service call taker's lottery and answered my call. He listened patiently to my problem. He even repeated it all back to me to clarify his understanding. And then he proceeded to explain to me what was going to happen to ensure that the problem got fixed. Yay! I thanked him and hung up, feeling quite good about the entire exchange. <br />
<br />
The mistake, I was promised, would be resolved in three business days. I was good with that. Immediately would have been better, but I accept that the wheels of corporate bureaucracy, policy and actual service turn slowly in reverse! I didn't even get upset about the two weekend days that fell amid the three business days, thus delaying the desired result. <br />
<br />
On the third business day, I checked - after waiting patiently (not my strong suit) - to see if all was indeed well in my world again.<br />
<br />
It was not. <br />
<br />
Hmmm.... I felt the creep of annoyance slithering around in the shadows of my psyche. <br />
<br />
Another phone call ensued. <br />
<br />
This time my call was handled by an efficient-sounding woman who called up my file and informed me that my problem had been resolved. (Deep breath!) I explained again that it had not and she grudgingly acknowledged it after leaving me on hold for several minutes. She informed me that the issue had been referred to the person in charge of my file and that he was working on it. She gave me his direct number and suggested that if I wasn't satisfied that I should call him. Great!<br />
<br />
I called him. I got his voice mail. I left a detailed message, stressing the growing urgency surrounding my situation and requested a call back as soon as possible...<br />
<br />
<i>It is now that I need to interject a bit more information about myself. I swear. A lot. Nothing relieves the tension better than a few well articulated epithets. I am a profound advocate for the f-bomb! I use it freely and without apology. (Though I do try to keep my blog relatively profanity free.)</i> <br />
<br />
...At this point I had not resorted to swearing. I had managed to maintain a relative calm about the situation and a faith in the business I was dealing with. My optimism wasn't exactly soaring; neither was it entirely in the toilet. But it was getting there.<br />
<br />
The guy did call me back. Unfortunately, I was indisposed when my phone rang and I missed the call. So I called back. I got his voice mail. I left another message.<br />
<br />
I was beginning to get worried. Nearly a week had passed since my initial call and I had no idea if or how my problem was being dealt with. I elected to call the call centre again and see if I could get some nugget of information about what was going on. <br />
<br />
This time I got a cheerful young lady who apologized profusely for my troubles and assured me that they (meaning the business) would do everything in their power to sort things out and make things right. My optimism retreated from the rim of the toilet bowl and alighted on the top of the tank, still well within sight should a sudden dive become necessary. <br />
<br />
The cheerful young lady ever so sweetly suggested that I get in contact with the guy in charge of my file, stating that the whole thing could sorted out much faster with him because he was familiar with my file and it wasn't something she could do anyway. <br />
<br />
Really? The first call centre guy I talked to seemed to think it was something he could do. <br />
<br />
But okay. I will wait for the guy with my file to call me.<br />
<br />
The next day he did just that. And then he proceeded to deny that he had any knowledge of what he said I was "claiming" he told me he was going to do before the mistake happened in the first place and that there was nothing he could do about it now. I would just have to come in to the office, get the stuff I needed from them to go and fix it myself. <br />
<br />
And that, my friends, is when I lost my shit and I started swearing. (Possibly thankfully, it is also when my phone battery died, increasing the colourful language about six-fold, though saving the guy from having to hear it all.)<br />
<br />
During the course of all these phone calls I was told a few different things. I was told that any charges I incurred as a result of the mistake would be reimbursed. (They will not be.) I was told that the problem was being resolved when it was not. I was told that nothing I had been told before the problem was ever said. I was told that it was all my fault in the first place. (I sat across the desk from the guy in charge of my file and his boss and listened to him bare-faced lie to me about what had transpired on the day he first became in charge of my file.)<br />
<br />
As of 11 a.m. most of the problem has been solved. There is one outstanding issue, but a completely different bureaucracy is in charge of that piece and is - rather oddly - "unable to help" me at the moment. I have to wait until August to get an answer from them, though the woman who told me this couldn't tell me why. <br />
<br />
"Can't you just look up my account?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Not until August." Deadpan. Probably sick to death of repeating herself.<br />
<br />
I elected not to push it. In my volatile emotional state and her very likely shitty job at this particular time of year, it just wasn't worth it. <br />
<br />
And so I wait! <br />
<br />
Fuck! (I don't like waiting.)<br />
<br />
And while I wait, I shall ponder the pros and cons of switching my business to a different company. <br />
<br />
Now earlier I alluded to the time it took for my call to be answered. This is, without exception, my biggest pet peeve in the whole world. <br />
<br />
Who ever thought that it was a good idea to have business calls answered by an electronic system? <b style="font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline;">Who!?</b> And why have they not been drawn and quartered for it?<br />
<br />
Just to get to speak to a real, live person, I had to listen to three different "menus", two of which had eight choices that I was expected to remember until the end, key in my account number and answer several "security" questions, all of which I had to repeat when, at long <b><i>(f-bomb alert!)</i></b> fucking last, and after being on hold for 6 minutes, a real, live person answered. WTF!? How is that a good thing? It took eleven minutes total from the time I dialed until I got to talk to someone. Eleven minutes! I timed it. It was a complete wonder that I was able to be so polite to the fellow. And let me tell you, it took a crap load of will power to slap a smile on my face and be polite by the time he did come on the line. <br />
<br />
This is not good business. It is not good customer service. It just isn't. It's appalling! My blood pressure rises even just writing about it. <br />
<br />
I have come to the sad conclusion in my old(er) age that complacency is a huge contributor to the downfall of society. People, myself included, are so disinclined to speak up against anything. Sure we get mad and frustrated and we rant to our friends and family (and blogs) about stuff. But who does anything? <br />
<br />
All this mamby-pamby, touchy-feely, go-with-the-flow crap is just getting stupid. I'm sorry! I really am. I hate that I just wrote that, but it is! It's stupid. <br />
<br />
I believe in being loving and kind and compassionate. I do! I think the world can benefit greatly from a little more loving kindness and compassion. At the same time, where is the accountability? Where is the good customer service? We're actually supposed to be loving and kind and compassionate, but corporations are allowed to treat their paying customers like crap!? I don't freaking think so! It's as if this whole movement toward "spiritual enlightenment" is nothing more than a ploy to get people to just bend over and take crap like this up the wazoo. Where is the balance? Where has the humanity gone?<br />
<br />
I am neck deep in a pool of righteous indignation right now (and wondering how long before I go all the way under). As someone who goes out of their way to comply to business' policy and procedure, I don't like being treated the way I was treated. I try to be a good customer. I may not always be perfect, but I try. And when I don't understand something, I ask. If I make a mistake, I take my lumps. That's all I ask from businesses. (And that they answer their damn phones!) Seems fair to me.<br />
<br />
Between the call answer system and the denial and misinformation this business dealt out to me and the broken promises, how can I be expected to continue giving them my business? The real kicker here is that, for the time being, I have no choice. They have me by the proverbial short and curlies and I must go along with their policy and procedure. I wouldn't mind so much if their policy and procedure was known to everyone who works for them and wasn't changed from phone call to phone call or appointment to appointment to suit the whims and cover the asses of said employees when they get called out on it. <br />
<br />
I can only work with the information that I am given. If it isn't the correct information, apparently, I am still responsible for the result if I follow the advice. What galls me most about this whole thing is this conversation (held today at the business in question and slightly paraphrased to protect the guilty):<br />
<br />
<i>Guy in charge of my file: </i> Your lawyer told you you had to ______________.<br />
<br />
<i>Me: </i> Yes. And that is why, when you brought it up, I asked you what the best way to proceed was.<br />
<br />
<i>Guy in charge of my file:</i> We don't _____________ that close to the [deadline].<br />
<br />
<i>Me: </i> Why would I ________________ if you didn't tell me to do it that way and that you could take care of it?<br />
<br />
<i>Guy in charge of my file:</i> We aren't going to have this conversation.<br />
<br />
<i>Guy's boss: </i> We can't ___________________ that close to the [deadline]. (This is the same woman who just moments before told me the [deadline] was June 31st.) <br />
<br />
I am done ranting for now. I'm going to go read my book and relax a bit; try to muster up some sanguinity. Maybe next week will be better. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-32543352398978492342016-07-20T14:34:00.000-07:002016-07-20T14:35:14.073-07:00The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and RoundI have a vague recollection of getting on a city bus with my mother as a very young child - maybe 3 or 4 years old. I don't know why we would have had to take a bus anywhere; my mother always had a car. But whether or not this recollection is valid, is, essentially, moot. Even if I did take a bus with my mother as a pre-schooler once very long ago, my knowledge of and experience with public transit remains practically nil. <br />
<br />
But living in a city and not driving kind of demands that one become familiar with this complex system of transportation. And my orientation began yesterday!<br />
<br />
We are conveniently located close to a convenience store that sells bus tickets. Who knew? My intrepid and oh, so patient, busing mentor, Bizz, of course. For $24 I was able to purchase a ten-pack of bus tickets there and at 9:30 a.m. that is what I did. At 9:39 a.m., I boarded a city bus for what may have been the first time in my life. <br />
<br />
And we were off!<br />
<br />
Our first destination was a little new age store where I hoped to arrange to do Tarot readings a couple of days a week. (But that is another story and one I won't get into here.) Upon boarding, I deposited my ticket into the ticket thingie and received a transfer from the driver. We had the bus to ourselves, so we sat in the senior seats up front - with the understanding that we would vacate them should a senior (handicapped person or stroller pusher) board. So far, so good. <br />
<br />
The first leg of our journey ended at a transfer station where we alighted and then waited for our next bus. Buses were coming and going and people were boarding and alighting like pros. I just followed Bizz and observed.<br />
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<br />
Two things are important when riding a bus. First, one must pay attention to the stops along the way. Second, one must know where one needs to get off the bus. And, yes, there is an app for that! <br />
<br />
The Edmonton Public Transit system has its own app. It's complicated and caters, I believe, to the seasoned bus commuter more than, say... Well, a newbie like me. A far easier way to enjoy the ride is to use Google Maps. Just plug in your destination and tap the icon for public transit and everything is neatly laid out for you. It even gives you walking times between bus stops if you have to move to a different one. (Now if I could only get directionally oriented, I'd be able to follow the maps!) <br />
<br />
Our second destination was to Johnson's Sewing Centre, where Bizz works. We went there to show off the mystery quilt that she had completed at seven that morning. After staying up all night to get this quilt done, a tired, albeit caffeine infused, quilter on a mission was my teacher and guide. Once show and tell ended, we packed up the quilt and headed south to Millwoods Town Centre, our local shopping mall, to mail off said quilt and complete the final leg of our journey. <br />
<br />
Which we did on foot. It takes about the same amount of time to walk from Millwoods Town Centre as it does to bus, so we saved a ticket and hoofed her home, where is was my time to be the guide. I showed Bizz an alternate route through Sister Mary (something) Casey Park next to the Grey Nuns Hospital, a more scenic course. Along the way we stopped at a little lake - or a large pond - to watch the geese. <br />
<br />
My first (or possibly second) experience using public transit was altogether positive. Even if the reason for it didn't quite pan out the way I had hoped. Public transit etiquette is, as it should be, fairly straight forward. Know where you're going. Give up your seat to the elderly, pregnant, handicapped or otherwise encumbered people. Do not press the stop request button unless you mean to actually get off the bus. If you are at a stop where several buses stop and a bus other than the one you are waiting for comes by, signal the driver that you don't need him/her to stop. This applies to situations where you are the only person there. Say thank you to the driver! (Just 'cause.)<br />
<br />
I think I will enjoy the new-found freedom public transit has to offer. Even if it is freedom on a schedule! <br />
<br />
Which, by the way, is highly dependable! I have to admit I was impressed at the efficiency of it all. <br />
<br />
Ooh! And the bendy buses are really cool, too!<br />
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Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-45626936537051447442016-07-15T11:40:00.004-07:002016-07-15T11:40:51.574-07:00There and Here! It's hard not to compare where you are with where you've been; the unfamiliar with the familiar. Having lived in a small BC town for 37 years, living in an Albertan city is, not to put too fine a point on it, strange. I am used to seeing, hearing and doing certain things. Here, in this metropolis, those things are no longer part of my everyday existence. <br />
<br />
I'm used to seeing things like this:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDLjBw6oCueX3lGRipFpUlSS7BYpqfFriXGx3Z7iAv3ZU59iJZhfO0u3AC3A-it7TruMt1pYCBh9bPgwfVqIB2UpkygAt6ggK5gBk8xDj00GCn-RU9w-myDfq8IM1-sxc1NLywaVSSKy-/s1600/houston+black+bear.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDLjBw6oCueX3lGRipFpUlSS7BYpqfFriXGx3Z7iAv3ZU59iJZhfO0u3AC3A-it7TruMt1pYCBh9bPgwfVqIB2UpkygAt6ggK5gBk8xDj00GCn-RU9w-myDfq8IM1-sxc1NLywaVSSKy-/s200/houston+black+bear.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More common in late summer and<br />
throughout the fall, black bears were<br />
part of life in Houston.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8FgvXjcmiQ_m62PkwjhXCNUkrs_KM2eVVlQvdkya8RarS7c9nb-_ePK5Y99y3ah1Hn5zYf9B19DnJSdinzTYFobW7XnnR-hKZ518jib681XxOyjl26Rsw7YUdhTBORp3ZIBb4IpytoCH/s1600/houston+deer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP8FgvXjcmiQ_m62PkwjhXCNUkrs_KM2eVVlQvdkya8RarS7c9nb-_ePK5Y99y3ah1Hn5zYf9B19DnJSdinzTYFobW7XnnR-hKZ518jib681XxOyjl26Rsw7YUdhTBORp3ZIBb4IpytoCH/s200/houston+deer.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deer were everywhere. It was normal<br />
to see them wandering the streets and<br />
hanging out in back yards. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGzPpfL6ut6zwWXJWNMcv1Dkm2Pi-ixkEa_8wiPNyyDfheAMdGKHPYe9tRkdZSW9pXtD-EHLyzTPNNNAdNJTeyaaboKE4enOJ9V4sJ-whs7qwmq7RRy6Beyi4_GPmdl-BRRpyc3EK5Lro/s1600/houston+mountain.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGzPpfL6ut6zwWXJWNMcv1Dkm2Pi-ixkEa_8wiPNyyDfheAMdGKHPYe9tRkdZSW9pXtD-EHLyzTPNNNAdNJTeyaaboKE4enOJ9V4sJ-whs7qwmq7RRy6Beyi4_GPmdl-BRRpyc3EK5Lro/s200/houston+mountain.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life in a valley meant being surrounded<br />
by mountains</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
Now I see things like this:<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9K3yUMfAp3Pmn4zu2HnlZcOKcuwZ7rS_LWHOq78v8jz03nfQ5a9htS1jPz_bzQLSsa54BDf-DHqL6rLJCMpYtCB9gEZT8EOsMIBf8k6lzv1PZ5a-daV6coLl2NvF5FoExAECis_3I0Xko/s1600/edmonton+hare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9K3yUMfAp3Pmn4zu2HnlZcOKcuwZ7rS_LWHOq78v8jz03nfQ5a9htS1jPz_bzQLSsa54BDf-DHqL6rLJCMpYtCB9gEZT8EOsMIBf8k6lzv1PZ5a-daV6coLl2NvF5FoExAECis_3I0Xko/s200/edmonton+hare.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These guys are everywhere, making<br />
dog walking a bit of a challenge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrLo_wlmZfAeR-gr-EMCZvdgABQnuZCVlOivPb5jmrxNlDtSA2XEHMzuCY_vrfvvXRvYYg-WKPOs_oDjGYU-2N7HgGdpUnuEoJQLxyQJkRSFNDOnFUQMB29sAodE6wfdGEAqmiGLP4n6B/s1600/edmonton+magpie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNrLo_wlmZfAeR-gr-EMCZvdgABQnuZCVlOivPb5jmrxNlDtSA2XEHMzuCY_vrfvvXRvYYg-WKPOs_oDjGYU-2N7HgGdpUnuEoJQLxyQJkRSFNDOnFUQMB29sAodE6wfdGEAqmiGLP4n6B/s200/edmonton+magpie.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magpies dominate the skies. Crows, on<br />
the other hand are relatively rare.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwalR517rnw9fGiFiNbSZd-Soty0ciqCLWFBTsyrp6o9xui-uQmQLvyhs-skw6SL9mo5k7dyvnoVnb7mXLrJkYzNN13wFwlpK4e5oap_sbRtykVSXfdk0mvtyr8IZS7ipAes90p_ey94q/s1600/edmonton+sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwalR517rnw9fGiFiNbSZd-Soty0ciqCLWFBTsyrp6o9xui-uQmQLvyhs-skw6SL9mo5k7dyvnoVnb7mXLrJkYzNN13wFwlpK4e5oap_sbRtykVSXfdk0mvtyr8IZS7ipAes90p_ey94q/s200/edmonton+sky.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The skyline is broken by buildings instead<br />
of mountains. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Another thing I don't see is dogs wandering about off-leash and unattended. It just never happens. Here dogs are leashed and with their owners when not contained in fenced yards. (I have yet to see a dog tied up, but that's not to say it doesn't happen.) <br />
<br />
<br />
I'm used to being able to walk anywhere. Any place I wanted to go, I could go on foot in under 20 minutes. Now, I have to think about and plan for any excursion. Do I walk? Do I bus? Do I get my kid to chauffeur me? Appointments are not made willy-nilly. They are given very careful consideration. (Oddly, I can walk faster than I can bus to the "local" shopping centre. Might not be so funny in the winter, but for now, it's great motivation to get some exercise.)<br />
<br />
Shopping!? Well, shopping is entirely different here. Shopping exists! <br />
<br />
Events happen here. And people show up for them! I'm relatively sure that boredom is obsolete. At least it should be. <br />
<br />
The city is strewn with gorgeous parks. There are parks everywhere! Walking trails make exploring the neighbourhoods more interesting. I just wish there was an off-leash dog park closer by. <br />
<br />
I was surprised to see people putting garbage for collection in bags. Everyone had toters in Houston. Here, they just put their bags out. Not even in cans - though some people do use cans. It's weird. The first time I saw that, I was horrified. I'm used to having to protect the garbage from dogs, crows and bears. Here it doesn't seem to be much of an issue. And recycling is easy! Just leave your BLUE bag out with your garbage bags and it's all taken care of. Love it! <br />
<br />
Yes, city life is different. Not better. Not worse. Just different. I'm adjusting slowly to it. I was worried that it would be all hustle and bustle, but it's really not. It just takes a little longer to get places and that has to be factored in when making plans. You DO NOT leave for an even ten minutes ahead of time. You leave at least a half an hour before it starts. More if you want good parking! <br />
<br />
Right now, I'm preparing to master the art of public transit. That should be interesting! Haven't done it yet, but I need to make friends with the buses. I'll tell you all about it. Soon. Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-19803665170618758732016-07-14T15:26:00.000-07:002016-07-14T15:28:37.403-07:00More Moving Challenges This move is proving to be somewhat more challenging than one would hope for. As you know, the previous owners left a ton of stuff behind and it cost us a small fortune to get it hauled away so we would have room for our stuff and, obviously, be able to move in.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We are still trying to get compensation for that little debacle...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I digress...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
First challenge... Or perhaps I should say second challenge... Yes, let's go with second challenge.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Second challenge: Canada Post.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now I know a lot of people have a lot of negative things to say about Canada Post. I don't - usually. And, to be honest, this challenge isn't entirely their fault. Sort of. Kind of. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The mail forwarding system that Canada Post has in place - for a ridiculous amount of money, I might add - is flawed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What is supposed to happen is this:</div>
<div>
1. You give the post office your new address and ask them to forward your mail from your old address to it, which, after charging you stupid amounts of money to do, they agree to do. (Notice that I say agree.) In theory, this is pretty straight forward. Mail coming to address A must be delivered to address B. </div>
<div>
2. You confidently march down to your community (in our case) mail box with your community mailbox key and open it up.</div>
<div>
3. You retrieve your forwarded mail.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All systems go. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The trick to this, I have discovered is timing. Coming from a small town with a single Cheery post office where everybody knew my name and communication between the grand total of five employees was (almost) assured, and moving to a big city with multiple post offices with hundreds of employees, I failed to consider that things might not go as smoothly as I hoped. In the name of efficiency, I dutifully applied for, paid for and received confirmation of mail forwarding from my old address to my new address. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now it's reasonable to assume that, unless you are moving into a brand new home with a brand new address, that someone lived at the address you are moving into before you and that they had lived there long enough for Canada Post to develop the expected habit of delivering their mail to them there. It's also reasonable to assume that that someone will also request mail forwarding to whatever new address they move to. Makes sense, right? And here is where the timing comes into play.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I requested, paid for and had confirmed my mail forwarding before the previous owners of our house requested theirs. And in the infinite wisdom of the mail forwarding system, my mail (along with everyone else's in the house) got swept up in that mail forwarding request and is being delivered to god knows where.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And... And here's the real kicker! ,,,the previous owners are not returning our mail! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Can you say pissed off? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Patience, little grasshopper, it gets better.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Third Challenge: The Bank </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Okay, so in the name, once again, of efficiency, we used a mortgage broker to help us find and secure a mortgage. (And he is so, so cute!) Anyway, he found us an amazing deal with amazing interest with the Scotia Bank. Happily, we went in to sign all the paperwork and while we were there we set up an account for household expenses, including the mortgage payment. But did they take our first mortgage payment out of that account? The one with the money in it to cover the payment? No, of course not. They took it out of my personal RBC account, overdrawing it in the process. Yay. Interest fees! I love those. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, we got our house (and the mortgage) on the 10th of June. Property taxes in Edmonton are due on the 30th of June. So we told the guy at the bank that we would deposit the money to cover this year's property taxes into the property tax account so that we didn't end up with a huge deficit next year and the subsequent increase in our mortgage payment that would go with it. No problem.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Except that they didn't submit our property taxes to the city on June 30th. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The epithets that followed that little discovery are not fit for publication in this blog. Rest assured the air was as blue as the deepest, bluest sea when I realized what had happened. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Okay, so shit happens. I get that. And shit can be fixed. All it takes is a phone call...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
More blue air. I swear, whoever invented those horrible call answer systems needs to be drawn and quartered. Nothing sets me off like hearing "Thank you for calling (insert corporation name here). If you are calling about your account, press 1. If you are calling about your mother's sister's husband's ex-wife's dog, press 2. If you wish to hear these menu options again, press *. If you want to speak to a real person hang up and come talk to us in person because we're only going to screw you around until you feel the distinct need to rip your eyeballs out. Oh and press 666. Just 'cause we get a kick out seeing how many of you will do that."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As a general rule, I don't throw things in anger. But one day I might not be able to make that claim ever again! Answer the damn phone, corporations! Just answer the damn phone and let me speak to a real person. Please! For the love of god, just answer your phones in person. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Between the previous owners not compensating us for taking care of their garbage, the post office being over efficient with their mail forwarding services, the previous owner's not returning our mail and the bank errors in our automatic payments and submission of our property taxes and the stupid call answering systems I had to fight with to get the problems solved...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I need a drink! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(Just put a straw in my wine bottle.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-32075640373598354702016-06-22T13:41:00.000-07:002016-06-22T13:41:08.966-07:00Praying They Don't Get Too Big!So, who knew? <br />
<br />
I sure didn't.<br />
<br />
A couple of weeks ago my adorable grandson, Nolan, announced that his class had hatched a bunch of praying mantis eggs and that, if "the grownups" agreed, the kids could take one home. <br />
<br />
Needless to say, my mind took a flying leap from the comfort zone cliff with a half-gainer and a double twist, and landed somewhere in the you've-got-to-be-kidding-me area of incredulity. They hatched praying mantises? They get to take them home? What?<br />
<br />
Of course, I wanted to know what possessed Nolan's teacher to hatch praying mantis eggs. And where the heck did she get them?<br />
<br />
At Home Depot. That's where.<br />
<br />
For thirteen bucks, you, too, can purchase a praying mantis egg case containing anywhere from 40 to 400 eggs. They hatch in about one hour, according to the HD website. <br />
<br />
The idea, apparently, is natural pest control. They eat anything thing that wiggles and fits in their mouth. These aggressive and ravenous beasts will help to keep ants,<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">fruit flies, gnats, aphids, flies, mosquitoes, beetles, moths, caterpillars and even grasshoppers out of your garden and out of your hair. No need for sprays or chemicals. Just let these crazy things loose and all your bug problems will disappear.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Mind you, you are then left with giant, green bugs scurrying around your yard. Praying mantises can grow to 20 cm in length. Though, to be fair - not to mentioned somewhat releived - the species that Nolan's class hatched only grow to be about 10 cm. All things considered a 4" bug is better than an 8" bug. But jeez! Four inches! Who said living with grandchildren wouldn't be challenging? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">There are over 2400 species of praying mantis in the world and most of them are native to temperate and tropical climates. Edmonton has a decidedly continental climate. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So what the heck are these things doing here? How did this happen? Why am I, a person who chooses locations to live based on the size of spiders and insects (the smaller, the better) and the type and number of snakes and other creepy crawlies, now wrapping my head around living in a place where 4" long bugs are a thing people do? On purpose! </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkV4Ekl_cGhMxAvMHA13-M2vRp2k8uOgdp_vZS-UaoyiPHzgZ721Eoj2TTOAlo9HctpwImNVxPmHuK23tZ8yWIGlSNxv4iTR8hOwF6ucfuGQT-SJCiJVFyxrkxu0u0EQf29gUY5agJNK2/s1600/praying+mantis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgkV4Ekl_cGhMxAvMHA13-M2vRp2k8uOgdp_vZS-UaoyiPHzgZ721Eoj2TTOAlo9HctpwImNVxPmHuK23tZ8yWIGlSNxv4iTR8hOwF6ucfuGQT-SJCiJVFyxrkxu0u0EQf29gUY5agJNK2/s1600/praying+mantis.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Imagine running into one of these in your house.<br />We have two!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 17px;">Some fun praying mantis facts:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">1. Most mantises live in the tropics. Except for Daisy, the praying mantis formerly known as Little Foot, and Walter, who both live in MY house!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">2. Most mantises in North America are exotic rather than native, having been introduced either by accident or by insanity. The Chinese Mantis was introduced in Philidelphia in the 1930's. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">3. Mantids are unique in the insect world for being able to turn their heads 180 degrees. It's really hard to sneak up on them!</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">4. Mantids are believed to share their ancestry with cockroaches and termites. Oh, goodie! </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">5. Mantids overwinter as eggs in temperate climates. Mating occurs in early fall. Then the female lays her eggs and covers them in a protective styrofoam-like goo that forms the case - also called an ootheca. Find one and bring it in during the winter and the warmth will trick the eggs into hatching. So, for the love of Pete, leave them outside!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">6. Female mantises sometimes eat their mates. But this only happens about 30% of the time in the wild. It is more common in labs and other forms of captivity for some reason. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">7. Manids use their specialized raptorial front legs to capture prey. Sharp spines line these deadly appendages and are used to hold prey tight while the mantis eats its prey. Alive!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">8. In evolutionary terms, mantids are quite young. The oldest fossils date from the Cretaceous period - 146-66 million years ago.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">9. Mantids do eat other insects, but they do not discriminate between the good bugs and the bad ones. A helpful, pollinating bee is just as tasty as a rose-destroying aphid.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">10. A praying mantis has binocular vision, but only one ear, which is located on its belly just forward of the back legs. This means that it cannot detect the direction or frequency of sound. It can, however, detect ultrasound - the sound of an echolocating bat - and thus evade becoming dinner itself. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">11. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; line-height: 23px;">The word </span><em style="background: 0px 0px rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #191919; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">mantis</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; line-height: 23px;"> comes from the Greek </span><em style="background: 0px 0px rgb(255, 255, 255); border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; color: #191919; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">mantikos</em><span style="background-color: white; color: #191919; line-height: 23px;">, for soothsayer or prophet. Indeed, these insects do look spiritual and mysterious, especially when their forelegs are clasped together as if they're in prayer</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">At the moment Walter and Daisy are only about a half-inch long. I admit they are kind of cute. For now. But after watching Walter consume an ant last night, I am not looking forward to their first molt and subsequent enlargement. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 17px;">I wonder if we'll be able to pitch the pest control theory to the kids successfully....</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span>Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-86921651651437274282016-06-15T09:40:00.000-07:002016-06-15T09:47:02.036-07:00A Terrible Thing Happened on the Way to My New LifeIn the midst of preparing to move into our new house and start our new life together something terrible happened in the world. Focused as we were on the task of cleaning out all the junk the previous owners left us to deal with so we could bring our own things into the house, this terrible thing barely registered with us. We heard the news. And we kept going. Our own world, our own troubles trumped the terrible thing that happened... Out there.<br />
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I finally had a moment to sit down and pay attention to the terrible thing that happened. Horrified, shocked and deeply saddened, I learned that a 29-year-old man took it upon himself to walk into a night club, slaughter 49 people, wound 53 more people and finally be shot to death himself by police. <br />
Why? I asked myself. Why does this happen? How does someone get to the point where this is okay to do? How much hate does it take to put someone over the edge and choose to consciously kill and maim other people? Where does all this hate come from? <br />
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I felt the grip of fear begin to squeeze my heart. For a time I sat with this fear. I watched it grow. I watched it transform. Into hate; dark and ugly and consuming. <br />
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With some effort I backed away from the hate and from the fear. I refused to let it consume me.<br />
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I don't know any of the people that were killed or wounded. I don't know the man that killed and wounded them. But their loss... I felt it. I still feel it. I will feel it for a long time, I think.<br />
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This kind of thing seems to be happening with frightening regularity in the world. It's getting harder and harder to hold on to the beauty and wonder and goodness. I shall not give up. <br />
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I know someone that this same sort of hate is consuming. Beneath that hate is a wonderful, creative and amazing man. He's an artist of extraordinary talent. He's a skilled handyman. He's an accomplished musician. He has so much incredibly beautiful stuff to give to the world. And it's all buried somewhere under a thick and putrid layer of hate and loathing and fear. Now I fear for him. <br />
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I fear what all this hatred will do to him. Will he end up like this 29-year-old? I don't think he would pull the trigger. I honestly can't see him doing that. There is a tender place still in him that repels killing. I just hope it is tender enough, strong enough to outlast the hate.<br />
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I have seen his goodness. I have seen the love that he has. I can only pray that it somehow finds its way back to the surface and shines once again. I can only pray that he finds his art, his love, his grace. My fondest wish is for him to find peace and for him to know the great joy that truly risking his heart can bring. <br />
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My own little thought experiment reminded me of the amazing power of gratitude. I have so much to be thankful for and as I ticked off all the many, many things that give me joy, the hate and the fear shrunk back into the recesses of my soul. <br />
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We all have a dark side. We all must at some time face the darkness. We cannot know joy or love without also knowing fear and hate. Fifty people lost their lives to hate on June 12th. While I mourn this tragic loss, I also feel compelled to carry on; to be the best person I can be, to continue to go forward with love in my heart. Perhaps not just specifically for them, but for all of us- including my beloved friend so lost in his own darkness. <br />
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When we get settled, I will light a candle for these lost souls. I will honour each of them and the sacrifice they made. May it not be in vain. May something good come of this terrible thing that happened. Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-18219520358045619502016-06-13T20:15:00.002-07:002016-06-13T20:16:38.368-07:00What a Day!What a day!<br />
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Sheesh.<br />
<br />
I swear I moved more stuff today than we even own. It was brutal. It was not fun.<br />
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You see, my daughter and I bought a house. Now typically, when one buys a house, said house is empty of all of the previous owner's possessions and ready to move into. Makes sense, right? People take their stuff with them when they move out.<br />
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Apparently, not everyone does this. Some people... like the people we bought our house from, for example... leave all the crap they collected over the years and don't want to take with them behind. They just leave it. They make no attempt whatsoever to deal with it. They just pick through their things and take only the stuff they really like and want to keep. <br />
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Last Friday - May 10th - we got the keys to the house. We were so excited. I had never seen it before, so I was really excited. And nervous. When we entered the house as ours for the first time we were stunned at all the stuff that was still in it. There was a polite little note from the previous owners explaining that they had left "a few things we thought you might be able to use."<br />
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A few things? A few? <br />
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I would hate to see their idea of a lot!<br />
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Closets and cupboards were full of stuff. Food, electronics, instruments, cat food, dishes, vases, decorations, paint cans, tools, cosmetics, candles, plants... One bin was filled with nail polish. We could have gone into business with that alone! It was nuts. <br />
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And the more we looked, the more we found.<br />
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The crawl space was crammed with scraps of wood and leftover tiles, linoleum and laminate flooring. There was a pile of tiny pieces of gyproc each about 3" x 12". A headboard, short lengths of molded plastic back splash, bits of wood and plastic... It just kept coming. And coming.<br />
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There were no less than six weed wackers! Mops and brooms and dust pans and even a vacuum cleaner! Laundry baskets and laundry hampers. Three floor fans in various stages of use and repair. A guitar amp and a guitar. A computer, a CD player, two sets of speakers, a sub-woofer and other various electronic gadgets. A hand saw. A hack saw. And a tile saw. Clamps and a hammer. Two socket sets - both nearly complete. Bags of stuffed toys. Giant stuffed toys - including a five-foot long neon orange and green squid. (Which is kind of amazing, actually.) And garbage! Literal garbage. <br />
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It took three of us two days to gather, sort and organize the colossal pile of stuff. I estimate that thirty hours of labour went into this wee project. And about two percent of it was useful and worth keeping. About two thirds of it went to the dump. At a cost of $455 to get it picked up and hauled away. A good pickup load or more is going to the thrift store. <br />
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Un-freaking-believable!<br />
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I'm exhausted. I ache all over. My feet are threatening to go on strike. My neck hurts. My legs hurt. And I just want to curl up and go to sleep. <br />
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I took photos of all the stuff and sent them to our Realtor. I know it isn't her problem, but I thought I would ask if there was any way she could help us get compensation for the costs of dealing with all that stuff from the previous owners. The poor woman was as shocked and disgusted as we were and is working on it for us. Not sure what will come of it, but it is certainly worth a shot. Had there really only been a "few" things, we would have been fine with it. But this! This is just ridiculous.<br />
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Thursday we get to do it all over again. At least this time it will be to move our own stuff in, instead of schlepping someone else's stuff out. I am so looking forward to getting this done. But right now I'm going to go and tuck my grandkids into bed. Then I'm going to follow suit and crawl into my own bed. <br />
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Good night, folks! <br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-64143870041877530372016-06-10T21:29:00.000-07:002016-06-10T21:29:02.687-07:00We Got Keys!I was so nervous! I mean nauseous nervous. <br />
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It was all I could do to hold back the tears and keep myself together. <br />
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We've been waiting for this day for ages, it seems. And it arrived with yet another reality shift that gut punched me like Ali going for the heavy weight title. I think I may be in shock. <br />
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At just after 4 p.m., the son of our Realtor knocked on the door and handed me the keys to our new house. I had to sit down. I had to take a deep breath. In just a few short hours I would be seeing the house for the first time.<br />
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I have lived in thirteen different houses during my life. This house will be #14. Of all those places, I have only chosen one for myself; the one I left to move here. I was so happy in my crazy house on Butler Avenue. So proud of myself for being able to buy it. And so thrilled that I got to pick it out. It was a moment I will never forget. <br />
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My daughters picked this house. Of course, they conferred with me during the process, but I got to actually see it for the first time today. <br />
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I unlocked the door and, together, Tracy and I carried Bizz over the threshold. Which begged the question: Why do grooms carry brides over the threshold? None of us knew and I will get back to that a little later.<br />
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We entered our new home for the first time together. It's lovely! Relief washed over me along with a sense of being home again. It was the same feeling I had when I first walked into Alegria on Butler Avenue five years ago. The kitchen is kind of small, but it's functional. I can see us having feasts and celebrations there. I can see us laughing and crying and loving and comforting and encouraging each other there. I can see us being a family there. I can see us prospering there. <br />
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The house is relatively clean. But the previous owners left us a ton of stuff to deal with. Every cupboard we opened had something in it. There are bags of toys in the rec room. There is food in the fridges and the freezers. Nick-nacks, speakers, stereo equipment, tools, a vacuum, step stools and ladders, roller skates... Even a guitar!... are littering cupboards and closets. There is a ton of garbage, too. We all wondered what they took with them. <br />
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Among the useful items are lawn mowers, a fantastic patio set, glasses and some outdoor storage bins. But seriously, all this stuff kind of left us feeling a bit put out. It all has to be sorted and distributed somewhere. Somehow. We really didn't need - much less want! - the extra work. <br />
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We won't be moving in for another week yet. I'm both loathing and longing to pack and schlepp and sort and organize. The added work of dealing with the detritus of the previous owners' lives is a bit of dark cloud hanging over us. But we will find a silver lining in it. Yard sale!? Might as well get something for our efforts.<br />
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In the meantime I am going to focus on being home at last. Sharing my life with Tracy, Bizz, Nolan and Jo is going to be fantastic. (It already is.)<br />
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Now back to the aside about grooms and brides and thresholds...<br />
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It seems that back in the day, many marriages started out as kidnappings. The only way a bride was going to cross a threshold was to be carried. The current tradition, however, seems to stem from the Medieval European custom of carrying a bride over the threshold to demonstrate the bride's reluctance to lose her virginity. But other cultures in other areas around the world also practice this gesture, not as a means of force or a show of modesty, but rather as a superstition. It is believed by some that carrying a bride across a threshold will ward of evil spirits and thwart bad luck.<br />
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Our version - the double chair-lift carry - was just us being goofy. But if it thwarts bad luck and wards off evil spirits... Well, so much the better for us.<br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-35586722055008063412016-06-08T09:04:00.001-07:002016-06-08T09:04:47.294-07:00Galaxy Cat - My Art After Dark ExperienceI feel like a kid in a candy store. As amusing as it may sound to some people, the city is filled with so many wonderful things to do. The irony of my saying that is not lost on me. I have shunned the idea of living in or even experiencing city life for nearly four decades. Now here I am busily scanning the Net for events and meetups that might lead me to the next fun thing to try.<br />
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(Still haven't gone ax throwing. But it remains high on the list.)<br />
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On June 7th, Bizz and I traveled to St. Albert to a lovely little wine and tapas bar called Privada. This cozy little venue welcomed 15 wanna-be painters to an evening of guided art work. The concept is really quite innovative. An artist - in this case a young man named Tyler - creates a painting. Interested participants register to re-create that painting step-by-step. It's called Art After Dark. <br />
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The Art After Dark project that Bizz and I completed is called Galaxy Cat. In a mere two hours we turned blank 18" x 24" canvases into rather stunning images of cat faces seemingly superimposed over a galactic background. Our intrepid young instructor patiently encouraged us through the process, making us all feel comfortable and confident. It was a thoroughly enjoyable experience and one that I hope to repeat. <br />
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This is what I accomplished:<br />
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For anyone traveling in Alberta - specifically to St. Albert - Privada serves an amazing cup of coffee! And their wine list is pretty impressive. <br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-46374901055015422182016-06-02T18:37:00.000-07:002016-06-02T18:37:08.070-07:00Welcome to the city. Wow! I am officially an...<br />
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Wait for it...<br />
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<b>Edmon-<i>Toni</i>-an! </b><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">After two weeks of intense activity I find myself back in that time warp where things are moving fast AND taking forever. We are still just over a week from taking possession of our new house and about two weeks from being able to move in. But how did it get to be the beginning of June already? And why is it taking so long to get finally moved and settled. Time has taken on a strange Twilight Zone-ian quality of late. LIfe has a surreal edge to it. I'm fascinated by everything, living in a constant state of wonder and awe. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Visual sensory input reached code overload yesterday. The city is huge. I am in a community of nearly 1 million people and everyone except me seems to know where they are going. I am just along for the ride. And I'm okay with that. At some point I will have to learn how to use a bus. Baby steps!</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is no end to the wonder of this city, though. Every day something new presents itself. Today it was a farmer's market. My big score: Spicy Banana Ketchup! Who knew? It's delicious. And while buying some incredible hand-made soap, the vendor gave me a free Anise lip balm. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yesterday, Tracy and I went to a fabulous coffee shop called Remedy. They serve Indian food and the lamb curry was sublime. The mango lassi was incredible! I can't wait to discover more places like this.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Adjusting to city life is going to take a while. For me and the pets. Chessa isn't doing too bad, but Oliver and Kaya are still traumatized. Oliver has been hiding since we got here, though he did come out today for a snuggle and some food. We figure that just about the time they all settle down and accept this place, we'll pack them up and move them to the new house. Trauma times two! Life with three cats, three dogs, a tortoise and two kids makes for a lively time. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, I'm sure I will have lots more to talk about in the coming weeks and months. I'm sure that I could live here for the rest of my life and still not experience the whole city. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But I'll be giving it my best shot!</span><br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-43644916945142229952016-05-08T10:51:00.001-07:002016-05-08T10:51:21.169-07:00Alberta BoundI know it's been a while since I've posted anything. It's not for lack of trying. I've started many posts over the past 9 months or so, only to be interrupted or distracted by other things. But today I am determined to write something and finish it.<br />
<br />
A few months ago I decided to see if I could sell my house this spring. The idea was that if the the house sold I would move to Edmonton. It wasn't a solid this-is-happening plan. It was, rather, a let's-see-what-happens plan. And so with the early snow-melt, I listed my house in mid-March thinking that if it sold at all it would sell in June-ish. It sold in April! April 6th, to be exact. A mere three weeks after the listing went up. <br />
<br />
Things got real really fast. <br />
<br />
The scramble was on to find a place to live in Edmonton. My daughters were tasked with that feat and several miles of text threads were generated in the relaying of information back and forth during the process. There were misunderstandings and tears and happy dances and disappointments and compromises and, finally, consensus. At what seemed like long-last, though it was only a few weeks, a house was found, a deal was struck and reality got even bigger.<br />
<br />
I am leaving Houston. After 37 years, I am leaving Houston to make a new life in Alberta with my daughters, Tracy and Bizz, and my grandchildren, Nolan and Jocelyn. <br />
<br />
Wow! <br />
<br />
I'm thrilled. I'm excited. I'm scared. I'm sad. I'm freaking out. I'm oddly calm. I'm leaving Houston!<br />
<br />
I'm leaving my wonderful job at the Houston Public Library. I'm leaving my lovely house on Butler Avenue. I'm leaving my amazing friends. I'm leaving my entire adult life so far behind. And I'm going to miss all of it! <br />
<br />
I'm going to be with my kids and grandkids. I'm going to new adventures and new experiences. I'm going to museums and festivals and art galleries and plays and markets and public transit and theatres and a spiritual community of like-minded people. I'm going to be me!<br />
<br />
Houston has been good to me. It's also broken my heart a thousand times. It's where I raised my family, learned skills, earned a living, made friends, celebrated life events, laughed, loved and cried.<br />
<br />
I'm ready for this change. As big and scary as it seems at times, it feels so right. To be sharing my life with people I love and care about again is so amazing. I've enjoyed having my own place and my own space. Yet having people I love around to care for and be cared for by is just so comforting. I can't even begin to express how much it means to me to be doing this. I can't wait to have dinner with my family and talk about our days. I can't wait to cook meals for them. I can't wait to encourage them and celebrate with them and even argue with them. Oh, yes, I expect there will be some of that! I can't wait to go to bed at night knowing that they are there and they are safe and well. I can't wait to wake up in the morning and send them off to school and work with a hug. I can't wait to have someone to hug again. <br />
<br />
But first it's off to FanCon in Prince George for a few days of fun with my beautiful and talented daughter, Alison. If you happen to be there, please stop by Ethereal Earth's booth and say hello to Morticia (me) and Wednesday (Ali) Addams. We'll be the ones selling fairy art! LOL <br />
<br />
Then, it'll be back home to clean and pack and say farewell to all my friends and loved ones and get ready to be Alberta Bound! <br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gV1rtBnCeiw" target="_blank">Alberta Bound</a><br />
<br /><br />
<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-41683647352223934172015-08-09T11:01:00.000-07:002015-08-09T11:01:50.180-07:00Man Magic<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I’ve been studying a bit of Man Magic
lately. Well, maybe not studying
exactly. But paying some extra
attention.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">What is Man Magic, you ask?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It’s those skills and that knowledge that
seems to come so easily to men. Things
like how to fix a car. And use power
tools to build stuff. And make
electronic things do what they do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">For the feminists out there who are bending
treacherously to the right in indignation, I’m not saying women can’t do this
stuff; just that it seems to come much more easily to men. I can – and sometimes do – do some of this
stuff, but not particularly well and not particularly easily. I have to work at it. My magic is vastly different and comes to me
much more effortlessly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Take electronics, for exam</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ple.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You solder a bunch of ceramic doodads with
bits of copper wire sticking out of them to a green (Why green, by the way?) plastic
board, add a few bigger ceramic doodads and a couple of black plastic squares
and – poof – a television or a computer or a radio happens.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">That’s magic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">One of these circuit boards is from a
television and one is from a computer: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCsRr7hH98bI17HfrYhIhnQaiuSMbDrPStUMu0HoBTp8pzhYVdEU-PtSXrLk7dBHMRYASASyXMxdynuncOvUWf9P5KCebLJIHp9xw4bHpRo98wWfXpokUB9qNRUVL7uU5i81dho7zrbLJ/s1600/TVcircuitboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCsRr7hH98bI17HfrYhIhnQaiuSMbDrPStUMu0HoBTp8pzhYVdEU-PtSXrLk7dBHMRYASASyXMxdynuncOvUWf9P5KCebLJIHp9xw4bHpRo98wWfXpokUB9qNRUVL7uU5i81dho7zrbLJ/s200/TVcircuitboard.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZom5wt8h7dASEmo-GrUMbYwQFoylgbXUC-bbefljqcwwvSN7R41NY1Xw3qn_gPszxyLoQGVlfOqUfl25UV5zOsitREz9IG1-aSseEXGvAbEdbvrS_AV-2udMimkleRB6OdzQW684r-cmc/s1600/computercircuitboard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="121" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZom5wt8h7dASEmo-GrUMbYwQFoylgbXUC-bbefljqcwwvSN7R41NY1Xw3qn_gPszxyLoQGVlfOqUfl25UV5zOsitREz9IG1-aSseEXGvAbEdbvrS_AV-2udMimkleRB6OdzQW684r-cmc/s200/computercircuitboard.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And while it may be fairly obvious which is
which, how on earth does someone get from that to a picture on a TV screen or
an operating system that brings the Internet to life or drives that addictive
piece of software that keeps you from cleaning the bathroom or doing the
laundry? I’m tellin’ ya! It’s magic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And cars!
The skill and knowledge it takes to make or fix or enhance one is
phenomenal. Seriously, if it were left
to me we’d all still be in awe of the wheel.
I’m not sure we’d even have reached the point where we’ve connected two
wheels with an axel, let alone attached a cart and loaded it up with stuff,
thus moving it around more easily.
Though I might have surprised us all.
Sometimes I do that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Anyway, I have always been fascinated by
Man Magic. Not enough to put enough time
and effort into mastering it, mind you. But enough to be deeply appreciative of
it. My rudimentary understanding of it
doesn’t even equate to the tip of the iceberg.
It probably doesn’t even equate to a penguin resting on the tip of the
iceberg. And, unlike said penguin, it is
likely to slip off and get eaten by a killer whale because it was gazing at the
clouds floating lazily overhead and not paying attention. But my appreciation of it is equal to a
hundred icebergs. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some years ago, my daughter observed that
men can have entire conversations in sound effects. The speed and pitch of these sound effects
somehow translates to clarification and diagnostic wizardry ensues. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“It goes click, click, wheeze.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Not nick, nick, whoosh?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Nope.
Click, click, wheeze.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“Your instamatic optimizer isn’t getting
enough power. Check the oomphalloptic in-take
and make sure it’s connected properly.
You might have to replace the OPG coil in the RXZ receptacle. But it’s probably just a loose oomphalloptic
line. Gotta keep those babies tight.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(If I only had a dollar for every similar
conversation I’ve heard in my lifetime!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am a curious person. Curious in that I am inquisitive, not
odd. (Well, I may be that, too.) I place a high value on learning and
understanding things at least well enough to grasp the fundamentals. My mind is an encyclopedia of theoretical
application, design and function. I can
build an entire house in my head, but no one would want to live in it if I were
to put theory into practice. The magic
does not translate well from the mental to the physical when I’m the one
wielding the hammer. I am content to
leave that – and most – Man Magic to the experts. Likewise with electronics and cars. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think that what I find so beguiling about
Man Magic is the marriage between art and science that is involved. Cars are beautiful. Buildings are beautiful. Machines are beautiful. They are works of art; functional and
productive works of art. Understanding the
processes that make them achievable – even just a little bit – makes them even
more beautiful. Sure they can be messy
and loud, but creating stuff is messy and, sometimes, loud. It’s part of the process. Try cooking a meal without making a
mess! And the noise is just
vibration. And vibration is energy. And energy is… everything!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There are times when I wish I was more
adept at Man Magic. It would certainly
make my life easier. And less
expensive. My bathroom would be
renovated. My library would be
built. My stairwell railing wouldn’t be
wobbly. There would be an awesome bench
next to my kitchen entry. And my
countertops would be replaced. And the
brown aluminum siding on my house would be replaced with vertical rough cedar
siding painted burnt orange with eggplant purple trim. There would be dark-stained wooden doors at
each entrance with stained glass inserts.
But, except maybe for the bench, which I might just attempt as a winter
project, this is all well above my level of Man Magic ability. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’d also have a 1970 Chevy Nova that I would
restore to immaculate perfection. How
freaking cool would that be? I can see
it now, gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun, metallic orange over dark
purple with about a billion layers of clear coat. And it would be loud. And fast.
(Although not with me behind the wheel!) And it would turn heads and I
would be so proud of what I had done. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LfkZJ1Mv5IJsIOcsipVqAIQU29dw-sj0aWUIjw0_NUm6sIHDgw04qf_JXo5XoBxLTldAsc3IHkNtduxFIyKdSCVJit44lLRsKpGMK2zstcywte38iih6mapGpJiGXa7D3kpwf6ZCOHMH/s1600/purple+chevy+nova.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LfkZJ1Mv5IJsIOcsipVqAIQU29dw-sj0aWUIjw0_NUm6sIHDgw04qf_JXo5XoBxLTldAsc3IHkNtduxFIyKdSCVJit44lLRsKpGMK2zstcywte38iih6mapGpJiGXa7D3kpwf6ZCOHMH/s320/purple+chevy+nova.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ah, well.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I close my eyes and then I drift away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Into the magic night I softly say<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A silent prayer like dreamers do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of
you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">- Roy Orbison</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-60660472403413445212015-07-30T17:26:00.001-07:002015-07-31T19:02:33.890-07:00Prime Deprivatioin<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh, woe is me!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This sad tale begins… Well, it begins sometime earlier in this
century when I was introduced by my beloved husband to what is, and always will
be, the best TV show ever produced (in my humble opinion). After 22 series on the BBC, it came to a
crashing end when the allegedly inebriated star punched out one of the
producers over sandwiches and was, subsequently, fired on the spot.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you haven’t already figured it out, the
show is Top Gear. And the star is Jeremy
Clarkson.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jeremy Clarkson, not to put too fine a
point on it, is an ass. But he’s a
loveable ass and, while the somewhat less than dignified end of an era brought
on by his somewhat less than good judgment was somewhat less than a surprise to
me, I was saddened by the seeming finality of it all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Top Gear is a show about cars. Or, more accurately, about vehicles. It is British in all aspects: content, humour and make and model. It’s also brilliantly inspirational. Sometimes, when I’m driving, I pretend that I
am a Top Gear host and I deliver witty monologues in my head about the
imaginary super car I’m test driving and reviewing for my segment on the
show. Alternately, I imagine the Stig
sitting next to me in the passenger seat, coaching me around Hammerhead and
through Gambon across the finish in a reasonably priced car. Of course, my final lap scores me the fastest
time. Eat your heart out, Angelina
Jolie! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now for those who know me and know also
that I hate driving as a general rule, but acknowledge that it is a very handy
skill, may be a bit puzzled as to why I have dubbed Top Gear as the best TV
show ever. It’s true that I possess only
a rudimentary understanding of how cars work.
Horse power, though having been explained to me several times, remains a
mystery to me beyond the bigger the number, the more powerful the engine. I have a vague inkling about what torque
means and does. I know that the V in V8,
for example, refers to the cylinders in an engine being configured in a
V-shape. I know that distributor caps
make great pencil holders! In the
simplest terms, I appreciate the art of design and designing cars is as much
art as it is science. There is beauty in
the sculptural result of a process that holds my very life in its hands. I am in awe of the knowledge, the skill and
the talent that provides me with the transportation that I rely on. And to have it so expertly, humorously and
thrillingly explained to me by the Top Gear hosts, Jeremy Clarkson, James May
and Richard Hammond, through the magic of television makes me feel good. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYerUSiO68eUwtrh7hHOmto_ynIkmKkodwFcmvzooljh34aQCn7zaEzsykXjYjbOlMmzVqOLefdm47fotUFUu5-9SNqi6j2c6ApzVwFHhAkCDDfHUq0reDw-wt145V6tKd4lEOFCDV1B3/s1600/Top-GEar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwYerUSiO68eUwtrh7hHOmto_ynIkmKkodwFcmvzooljh34aQCn7zaEzsykXjYjbOlMmzVqOLefdm47fotUFUu5-9SNqi6j2c6ApzVwFHhAkCDDfHUq0reDw-wt145V6tKd4lEOFCDV1B3/s320/Top-GEar.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">L to R: Richard Hammond, Jeremy Clarkson, James May.<br />
My vehicular heroes!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, why the woe is me stuff? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not, as you may have thought, because Top
Gear is over and done. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Recently it was announced that the
Clarkson, May and Hammond trio are reuniting to do a new car show. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That’s not it, either.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But this is… The deal for the new show is with Amazon
Prime. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Amazon Prime is a Netflix-like service provided,
obviously, by Amazon to its US and (I might be wrong about this and I am
investigating) UK customers. A vastly
different service, also called Amazon Prime, is available in Canada, but it’s,
at best, a parody of the US/UK version and, I suspect, because I’m highly
suspicious that way, is called Amazon Prime to sucker unsuspecting and trusting
Canadians to part with $79/year thinking, erroneously as it turns out, that
Amazon Prime is Amazon Prime no matter where you live. The stinkers!
Amazon, I mean. (I concede that Amazon may not be entirely responsible for this sad oversight and that the CRTC's influence may be a factor.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Would I part with $79/year just to watch
Clarkson’s, May’s and Hammond’s future antics behind the wheel? You bet your sweet bippy I would!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But, alas, Amazon seems to think Canada
doesn’t need the real Amazon Prime; that we, in our inherent and typically
complacent ways, are happy to pay them for free shipping. (Yep!
That’s one of the featured features of the program! You pay for free shipping even though you can
get it for really free anyway.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am cautiously optimistic that the new
show will show up on the Internet somewhere and that I will be able to watch
it. And I hope that it will be as
entertaining and informative as Top Gear was (is). In the meantime, I will re-watch my favourite
episodes and continue to expand my limited knowledge about cars and vast
appreciation for the incredible and artful technology that moves our world. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-29149576794810789782015-07-23T18:44:00.002-07:002015-07-23T18:44:36.180-07:00X<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am sitting in my office at work, but my
heart and mind are nowhere near here.
They are off on yet another tangent, wondering if X will ever happen and
if it does will it be as fantastic in real life as it is in my imagination? They are mucking about in an emotional swamp,
doubt and fear swirling around them like sharks ready to bite. They are in reach of a lifeline, just a
little to the Right, but they rale against going Right, because the colours are
so much brighter on the Left. The Left
is so full of untapped potential, so brilliant, so sparkly. So vastly thrilling and dangerous and
bursting with treasure waiting to be discovered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thirsty for X, I can only sip tiny drops of
its nectar when they happen to fall on my lips.
I am teased and taunted by it, over there, on the edge of this swamp
that feels more like an ocean. One step
and I’d be on dry land. And yet it seems
I’ve been swimming for ages while the shore just keeps getting farther
away. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am distracted, briefly, by a phone
call. A decision has to be made, so I
make it. It’s easy – a no-brainer. Oddly enough, most decisions I am called upon
to make are like that. I navigate the
thing that puts food on my table and a roof over my head with relative
ease. It’s like a child; it needs to be
nurtured, pampered, praised, disciplined, all in turn. On the rare occasions that it vexes me, I
have learned how to rock it to sleep, or bandage its wounds or pacify its
tantrums. Mostly, though, it makes me
proud. I wake up every day looking forward
to its challenges and go to sleep every night content in knowing that we serve
each other so well. And I try not to
think about the day when I will have to let it go. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I do think that if X would only reach out a
hand to me I could get through anything.
But X remains elusive, pensive and vaguely aloof as if something I have
done, or, alternatively, not done, continues to be an affront to its
sensibilities. I just don’t know. And that makes me a little nuts! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I wonder if having X will prove to be
as amazing as it sounds. I wonder if the
fantasy is better than the reality ever could be. I second guess. I mentally sabotage the dream. I invent every worst-case scenario I can
think of, just to test if I would be able to survive it. (And I can!
‘Cause I’m Super Woman and I’m cool like that! At least in my head.) Envisioning the best-case scenarios, though,
is something that I’m not nearly as adept at.
Those, I think, are assumed. Or,
possibly, believed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Belief is such a misunderstood and abused
concept! Intellectually, I know that beliefs
are not real, but it acts real and that is where the danger lies! I don’t think I really do believe in the
best-case scenarios, though. They are
far too peaceful and comfortable for my adventure-starved psyche to latch onto
with any kind of firm grip. Where’s the
fun and excitement in that? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And yet… And yet, that is what I also long
for. Peace and contentment. To be satisfied and relaxe</span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">d and unencumbered
by crisis - real or imagined! -</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">would be
so… Well, boring, really!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Incoming “Aha moment”! <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So maybe I just need to learn to discern
between good drama and bad drama.
Yes! I think that might be
it. I’ll have to ponder that some more. I can already see it’s fraught with
traps. But it has some definite
potential. Hmmm….<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">X has been lurking in the shadows of my
imagination for… For as long as I can remember.
In my mind I can see it and feel it quite clearly. It’s easy to conjure the formula for X, that
velvety elixir, that divine potion. It’s
the mixing, the extracting, the condensing that is necessary for the creation
of the perfect existential experience that is so troublesome. X may be demanding compromise. Or, perhaps, an ingredient that I am not
privileged to is missing. Or both. Or I’m overthinking it, which is far more probable. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And the pressure I’m feeling. The X clock is ticking, damn it! I do worry a bit that time is running
out. X has a use-by date congruent with
my last breath. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Not that I’m expecting to expire any time
really soon, mind you. I’m not finished
yet. There’s more to do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Like achieving X!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sigh…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I deserve X. I am worthy of X. I would be as great for X as X would be for
me. X and I could do marvelous things
together. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">X isn’t a need. It’s a want.
I know this because I have survived for 53 years without X and I’m still
here. X is a dream. X is a goal.
X is that thing that, unlike becoming a ballerina, is actually
achievable. (I’m almost positive of
that. [Only fools are positive, right?])
X courses through my veins. X
plagues my dreams and haunts my waking hours.
X is a bit of a nag that keeps calling to me, only to dodge my grasp
just when I think it is within my reach.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I honestly don’t know if I’m a pessimist or
an optimist when it comes to X. It’s a
mystery. X is, I mean.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And while I do love a good mystery, I sure
wish that X would step out of the shadows and, for the love of Pete, either
stand still long enough for me to make it mine (figuratively speaking), or
bugger off all together.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #0b5394;">(Dear Universe; Please don’t let X bugger
off altogether. Please show me how to
incorporate X into my life and collaborate with it and have fun with it and be
supported by it and be challenged by it and create with it and spend the rest
of my life with it. Let X know that I
will always do my best and that it has nothing to fear from me and that I will
never, ever do anything (on purpose) to hurt it. So mote it be.) </span></i><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Well, that’s it. X is still sitting just over there on the
Left amid the sparkly, brilliant thrill and danger, sometimes smiling at me
with encouragement and sometimes looking mystified and perplexed at my clumsy
attempts at making my way toward it. It’s
almost as if it wants me as much as I want it.
But it’s unwilling to surrender, as if in doing so it will become lost,
or destroyed or otherwise changed somehow.
Oh, how I would love to be lost in X.
Destroyed by it. Changed by
it. To become found again, re-created
and better than I am now. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-30402661156768479672015-07-11T12:05:00.000-07:002015-07-11T12:05:14.676-07:00Bond. James Bond<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I love James Bond. I
am currently engaged in a Bond-a-thon, of sorts; I’m watching all 24 Bond
movies this summer in preparation for the 25<sup>th</sup> Bond movie to be
released… Well, sometime soon, I hope.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It is the absurdity of the spy trade that makes these movies
so entertaining. That men feel the need
to create such useless drama is proof positive that we need saber-tooth tigers
and mastodons to keep them occupied against real threats and stop them from
thinking up stupid reasons to kill each other.
Thus, leaving women to do what needs to be done to govern a productive
and peaceful world. A matriarchal
society where men are men and women are women and there is no us against them
crap to contend with is my idea of utopia.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Don’t get me wrong. I
love and admire men. I am in constant
awe at the useful skills they contribute to life, their physical strength and
their ingenuity. There is nothing sexier
than a strong, creative man who knows how to solve problems and can adroitly
employ discernment between defense and aggression; and who doesn’t just try to “fix”
things all the time. Why do men always
try to fix things? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As a feminist, I try to advocate for equality not sameness
(there is a huge difference!). And,
while, yes, I do think a matriarchal society would be grand, I posit that in
it, men would not be deemed beneath women, but revered and celebrated in far
more healthy ways than the patriarchal model has so far demonstrated in its
view upon women. But that is a different blog and I apologize for the minor
digression.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Back to Bond. James
Bond.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1FATwbOuzfioza5E4HJ7aoSwz0wfXoOSOP5Tqdw2x0M_xVxfleoETxqJaiXYbxlvVl4DE-8xBhX-TL0BtJEvIz3yrwv3ahz2BDu_eo4IPy2LqWn8rw_iWLS4ktTbGU0mAYROz_exoXj5i/s1600/James-Bonds-600x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1FATwbOuzfioza5E4HJ7aoSwz0wfXoOSOP5Tqdw2x0M_xVxfleoETxqJaiXYbxlvVl4DE-8xBhX-TL0BtJEvIz3yrwv3ahz2BDu_eo4IPy2LqWn8rw_iWLS4ktTbGU0mAYROz_exoXj5i/s320/James-Bonds-600x300.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Bond has been portrayed by six different actors: Sean Connery, George Lazenby, Roger Moore,
Pierce Brosnan, Timothy Dalton and Daniel Craig; the debonair Sir Roger being
my all-time favourite of the group, with Daniel Craig being a very – very, very, very! – close second. Each of these accomplished actors brought his
own qualities to the role and assisted in elevating the legendary spy to epic
heights as an iconic hero of the people.
Sexy, smart, resourceful and, of course, licensed to kill, Bond engages
men and women alike for his abilities, though, perhaps, for different
reasons. With just a touch – for really,
that’s all a man needs – of vulnerability, Bond represents the epitome of
manhood. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Except that he is a spy.
But he has the coolest gadgets.
Like his wet suit with the rubber duck on the top piece used in
Goldfinger. Who says spy gadget makers
don’t have a sense of humour? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Still, he’s a spy.
The modern saber-tooth tiger hunter.
With gadgets! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I love him. Almost
as much as I love Batman. Batman is everything
that Bond is, with more money. (I
think.) And he’s not a spy. Just a guy with strong principles who doesn’t
go looking for trouble necessarily, but doesn’t back down from it either. And he has a cape. And a mask.
And a utility belt. And an
awesome butler. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oops! Another
digression. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I love Bond because he is a hero – even if he is a spy – and
I need a hero. Heroes are harbingers of
hope and there are times when hope is all I have. If I can’t have a real hero in my life, at
least I can have literary ones. Like Bond. (And Batman.)
May he (they) always be there to lift my spirits, so often both shaken
and stirred!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-38072771384912111602015-07-10T13:47:00.000-07:002015-07-10T13:47:06.599-07:00The Majestic - a restaurant review<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Houston.
Population: 3200(ish). Not enough for a Tim Horton’s, but more than
enough apparently for three Chinese food restaurants. There is not a lot of option when it comes to
dining out in Houston. Lunch venues like
Brewstir’s, Tea Gallery and the Food Market are adequate – even quite
good. But dining out… I mean really
dining out… leaves a lot to be desired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You can imagine my thrill then, when earlier this year, The
Majestic opened its doors at the Houston Motor Inn. The Majestic offers East Indian and Western cuisine
and, all spices aside, has been a breath of fresh air for me as far as going
out for dinner is concerned. The butter chicken is delectable. The curried lamb is exquisite. The coconut chicken is nothing short of
amazing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUYoiVjEbJNKcn7AEMgWmDdOcCirNM8OclMtSlDaSEsTghtUg-e8eL9BPqqPrO1wlBo4uG84G3BSJrJ-xAwRWHzc4ISpkR5OYy_g6jJkd-UZEWi3_QixVOAvh99JVpW7OhnkahvyTiv_qW/s1600/majestic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUYoiVjEbJNKcn7AEMgWmDdOcCirNM8OclMtSlDaSEsTghtUg-e8eL9BPqqPrO1wlBo4uG84G3BSJrJ-xAwRWHzc4ISpkR5OYy_g6jJkd-UZEWi3_QixVOAvh99JVpW7OhnkahvyTiv_qW/s1600/majestic.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">While I’ve had the pleasure of eating at The Majestic
several times, I have not yet managed to get through the whole menu. What I have experienced so far, though, is
delicious!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People who know me well enough are a bit taken aback by my
enthusiasm for this new restaurant. I do
not possess a very adventurous palate; Kraft Dinner and wieners is food of the
gods in my opinion. But I love a good
curry and being able to customize the “hot level” of the spices (1 to 5) means I
can eat to fit my mood. And all for very
reasonable prices!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My only trepidation is that restaurants tend not to last
very long in this venue. For much of the
36 years that I have lived in Houston, the Houston Motor Inn (formerly Midway) restaurant
space has sat empty, the freezer warm and the friers cold. There have been several attempts by various
people to provide both good and mediocre dining experiences there. None have lasted more than two years. So I think I will be looking for excuses –
lots of excuses – to eat there for the next 18 months or so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And if anyone would like to join me, don’t hesitate to give
me a call! </span><o:p></o:p></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-65093835648830254312015-07-09T13:54:00.004-07:002015-07-09T15:27:36.449-07:00Felix<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This blogging thing is proving to be difficult to keep up with. I have started at least a dozen posts and have been interrupted or otherwise distracted since my last post in March. None of them have made it past draft and sit spectacularly unfinished in various folders on my computer and the Cloud. It's really quite disheartening.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But I cannot overlook Felix. He must be immortalized at Yemalla's Moon!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I am just starting my 54th trip around the sun. I mention this only because it in relation to my years - even if you take away the first 16 that I was not allowed to drive - my car ownership stats are comparatively low with other people of a similar age. I have averaged a new car every 12 years four months since reaching legal driving age or every seven years since buying my first vehicle. I bought my first car - an unimpressive 1993 Mercury Topaz (The Old Gray Mare) when I was 34. TOGM was what one might refer to as a lemon, presenting with no end of problems over the seven or eight years that I owned her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">After TOGM was retired from my life, my primary mode of transportation became my feet. I didn't mind. In fact if I ever win the lottery, the first thing I intend to do is to hire a chauffeur. I could happily cut up my license and never drive again (although I do grudgingly admit that it is a handy skill to have). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I bought my second vehicle in 2010 after an horrific incident where the 1988 Toyota Corolla (Isabelle) that I had the use of was unceremoniously backed into by a pickup truck that left her passenger side doors severely dented. The vehicle that I bought was a 2000 Pontiac Montana named Gracie (after Gracie Allen because she was so quirky right from the start). Gracie liked to play tricks like having her gas gauge start filling up again when it reached the half-tank mark. Her electrical systems were glitchy and she sometimes pretended that her ignition wasn't working. But she ran great and had a fair bit of jam for an old mini-van.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The real problem with Gracie is that she wasn't very good at hauling stuff. When I needed lumber for a project around Alegria, she wasn't suited for the task of carrying it home. Forget about taking stuff to the dump! And her front-wheel drive system was useless in the winter if I wanted to go snowshoeing. The final straw was her failing AC. I'm sorry but five weeks of sustained 25-30+ degree heat requires AC! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So I decided that I would look for a pickup. I certainly do not need a seven-passenger vehicle, but I do need to be able to haul garbage, pick up lumber and go snowshoeing! </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9gHKF2KlgdSO7Zqq4PRh0wjulbmIi6bjM0YW0qrmtlbHu2GN58N8gP9q6RkaBK2HlYaX89h9u5M9Qw6DF_rC_tvSM7zAt02o6PvQ_YweIciBRRFI_jVy-pSxQWcvrhD8pm1uYrA-o5LY/s1600/Felix.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd9gHKF2KlgdSO7Zqq4PRh0wjulbmIi6bjM0YW0qrmtlbHu2GN58N8gP9q6RkaBK2HlYaX89h9u5M9Qw6DF_rC_tvSM7zAt02o6PvQ_YweIciBRRFI_jVy-pSxQWcvrhD8pm1uYrA-o5LY/s320/Felix.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Enter my third vehicle: Felix. Felix means lucky and successful. He's a 2010 Ford Ranger with 74,000 clicks on the odometer, a custom rack, a Tonnaeu cover and studded winter tires on separate rims. His four-wheel drive capacity will come in handing in the coming winter months (yes, people, Winter Is Coming!) and with a bit of ingenuity his rack will nicely support a custom tent for camping. Whoot! This morning, he happily and easily took a load of old, rotten wood that had been languishing in my back yard for a very long time to the dump. It was awesome! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So far, Felix has been wonderful. I am quickly growing attached to the little pickup. I know it's only been a couple of days, but I've been known to fall hard for handsome and handy guys before; Felix is both! </span><br />
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<br />Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2627412383571657870.post-36229958812389249062015-03-02T21:51:00.001-08:002015-03-02T21:51:28.458-08:00Les Miserables<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqe-gxFlcq_D5Z9aATT_9wb6B_F0n9cu1P6qPspRHXriBUKeFL88nR24eOIMC-4mtlsiOWJAWObbPkUxADfvFl1jqxvy_Fh43fQVA_u2Ax6UNXnDA6ez0aPHkywBCSbuUgQLcc9q5b98Tn/s1600/les+miserable.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqe-gxFlcq_D5Z9aATT_9wb6B_F0n9cu1P6qPspRHXriBUKeFL88nR24eOIMC-4mtlsiOWJAWObbPkUxADfvFl1jqxvy_Fh43fQVA_u2Ax6UNXnDA6ez0aPHkywBCSbuUgQLcc9q5b98Tn/s1600/les+miserable.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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One day many years ago my husband, Eric, came home to find
me sobbing on the sofa. His first
reaction was to ask if the kids were okay.
I nodded through my tears; it was all I could do. Nearly frantic, he demanded that I tell him
what was wrong. “Flint died!” I blurted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Who the hell is Flint?” Eric was so confused.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn’t have the energy to explain in detail, so I just
told him that Flint was a character in the book I was reading. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I nearly had to peal the poor man off the ceiling. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I wiped away my tears, he ranted on and on and on about
how reading was stupid and a waste of time.
We fought about it for a while.
His position was that the only reading material necessary was Archie
comics while I championed reading in general and Dragon Lance (the series in
which Flint met his unfortunate and untimely demise) in particular. That a story could move someone to such
genuine emotion was to be applauded I argued.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t knock it ‘til you tried it,” I challenged.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Apparently he had. At
some point in his early adulthood he had read Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, no wonder he quit reading, I thought. And I
was right. Les Miserables was the reason
he had turned his back on reading, but not for the reasons I had imagined. Though he was extremely reluctant to admit
it, the story had moved him to tears and so he decided that reading was a waste
of time. (Men!)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have yet to actually get through the entire book. I’ve started it a couple of times, but I
struggle with the writing style and always give up. I have managed to glean a basic understanding
of the story over the years, and have resigned myself to never actually getting
all the way through it. At least not in
print.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thanks, though, to the magic of video, I have finally
completed the story from start to finish.
And I was impressed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had a bit of a hard time imagining Hugh Jackman as Jean Valjean
and Russell Crowe as Javert, but like Robert Downey Jr. as Sherlock Holmes (and
I had the same reservations) they pretty much nailed it. It was all quite spectacular. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And now I wonder what Eric would have thought. He loved movies. Would seeing this life changing story brought
to life on the big screen have met his approval? I suspect not. I think he would have condemned it and refused
to watch it – for fear of having those print-induced emotions dislodged from
the deepest recesses to bubble up to the surface once again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Oh, my strange, dear husband! I wish you were here to prove me right. You would be in awe of Netflix… of streaming
video in general, I think. (In spite of
being as terrified of the Internet as you were.) <o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, I am glad that I finally got to watch Les
Miserables. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And, yes, I was moved to some genuine emotion by it. <o:p></o:p></div>
Yemallahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07409971024629343788noreply@blogger.com3